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Cbitton  be  Huxe 

THE     WORKS 

OF 

CHARLKS   LAMB 

muitxatth 

# 

THE 

ESSAYS  OF   ELIA 

WITH     INTRODUCTION     AND    NOTES    BY 

ALFRED    AINGER 

VLf^t  Cljesiterfielb  ^ocietp 

Uonbon                                          Mt\o  |?orb 

EDITION  DE   LUXE 

One  thousand  copies  of  this 
edition  have  been  printed  for 
sale  in  america,  of  which  this  is 

^0 ._,.. 


INTRODUCTION 

THE  two  volumes  of  miscellaneous  writings 
by  Charles  Lamb,  published  by  the  Olliers 
in  1818,  contained  a  variety  of  prose  sufficient 
to  prove  once  more  that  the  study  and  practice 
of  verse  is  one  of  the  best  trainings  for  a  prose 
style.  In  his  dedication  of  the  poetical  volume 
to  Coleridge,  Lamb  half  apologises  for  having  for- 
saken his  old  calling,  and  for  having  "dwindled 
into  prose  and  criticism."  The  apology,  as  I  have 
elsewhere  remarked,  was  hardly  needed.  If  we  ex- 
cept the  lines  to  Hester  Savory  and  a  few  of  the 
sonnets  and  shorter  pieces,  there  was  little  in  the 
volume  to  weigh  against  the  two  essays  on  Ho- 
garth and  the  tragedies  of  Shakspeare.  It  was  the 
result  of  the  miscellaneous  and  yet  thorough  char- 
acter of  Lamb's  reading  from  a  boy  that  the  criti- 
cal side  of  his  mind  was  the  first  to  mature.  The 
shorter  papers  contributed  by  Lamb  to  Leigh 
Hunt's  Reflector  in  1811 — the  year  to  which  be- 
long the  two  critical  essays  just  mentioned — more 
or  less  framed  on  the  model  of  the  Toiler  and  its 
successors,  give  by  comparison  little  promise  of  the 
richness  and  variety  of  the  Elia  series  of  ten  years 


THE  ESSAYS  OF  ELIA 
later.  On  the  other  hand,  there  are  passages  in  the 
critical  essays,  such  as  that  on  LeaVy  as  represented 
on  the  stage,  and  the  vindication  of  Hogarth  as  a 
moral  teacher,  which  represent  Lamb  at  his  highest. 
On  the  republication  of  these  miscellanies  in 
1818,  it  could  not  be  overlooked  that  a  prose 
writer  of  something  like  genius  was  coming  to  the 
front.  One  of  the  younger  critics  of  the  day,  Henry 
Nelson  Coleridge,  reviewing  the  volumes  in  the 
fifth  number  of  the  Etonian,  in  1821,  does  not 
hesitate  to  declare  that  "Charles  Lamb  writes  the 
best,  the  purest,  and  most  genuine  English  of  any 
man  living,"  and  adds  the  following  acute  remark : 
— "For  genuine  Anglicism,  which  amongst  all  other 
essentials  of  excellence  in  our  native  literature,  is 
now  recovering  itself  from  the  leaden  mace  of  the 
Rambler,  he  is  quite  a  study ;  his  prose  is  absolutely 
perfect,  it  conveys  thought,  without  smothering  it 
in  blankets."  Lamb  was  indeed  to  do  more  than 
any  man  of  his  time  to  remove  the  Johnsonian 
incubus  from  our  periodical  literature.  But  the  full 
scope  of  the  writer's  powers  was  not  known,  per- 
haps even  to  himself,  till  the  opportunity  afforded 
him  by  the  establishment  of  the  London  Magazine 
in  1820.  It  did  credit  to  the  discernment  of  the 
editors  of  that  publication,  that  no  control  seems 

vi 


INTRODUCTION 

to  have  been  exercised  over  the  matter  or  manner 
of  Lamb's  contributions.  The  writer  had  not  to  see 
all  that  made  the  individuality  of  his  style  disappear 
under  the  editor's  hand,  as  his  review  of  the  Excin^- 
sion  in  the  Quarterly  had  suffered  under  GifFord's. 
To  "wander  at  its  own  sweet  will"  was  the  first 
necessity  of  Lamb's  genius.  And  this  miscellaneous - 
ness  of  subject  and  treatment  is  the  first  surprise 
and  dehght  felt  by  the  reader  of  Lamb.  It  seems  as 
if  the  choice  of  subject  came  to  him  almost  at  hap- 
hazard,— as  if,  Hke  Shakspeare,  he  found  the  first 
plot  that  came  to  hand  suitable,  because  the  hand 
that  was  to  deal  with  it  was  absolutely  secure  of 
its  power  to  transmute  the  most  unpromising  mate- 
rial into  gold.  Roast  Pig,  The  Praise  of  Chimney- 
sweepers, A  Bachelors  Complaint  of  the  Conduct 
of  Married  People,  Grace  before  3feat — the  incon- 
gruity of  the  titles  at  once  declares  the  humorist's 
confidence  in  the  certainty  of  his  touch.  To  have 
been  commonplace  on  such  topics  would  have  been 
certain  failure. 

In  the  Character  of  the  late  Elia,  by  a  Friend, 
which  Lamb  wrote  in  the  interval  between  the  pub- 
lication of  the  first  and  second  series  of  essays,  he 
hits  off  the  characteristics  of  his  style  in  a  tone  half 
contemptuous,  half  apologetic,  which  yet  contains  a 

vii 


THE   ESSAYS    OF   ELIA 

criticism  of  real  value.  "  I  am  now  at  liberty  to  con- 
fess," he  writes,  "that  much  which  I  have  heard  ob- 
jected to  my  late  friend's  writings  was  well  founded. 
Crude,  they  are,  I  grant  you — a  sort  of  unhcked, 
incondite  things — villainously  pranked  in  an  affected 
array  of  antique  words  and  phrases.  They  had  not 
been  his,  if  they  had  been  other  than  such ;  and  bet- 
ter it  is  that  a  writer  should  be  natural  in  a  self- 
pleasing  quaintness  than  to  affect  a  naturalness  (so 
called)  that  should  be  strange  to  him."  No  better 
text  could  be  found  from  which  to  discourse  on 
Charles  Lamb's  English.  The  plea  put  forth  almost 
as  a  paradox  is  nevertheless  a  simple  truth.  What 
appears  to  the  hasty  reader  artificial  in  Lamb's  style 
was  natural  to  him.  For  in  this  matter  of  style  he 
was  the  product  of  his  reading,  and  fi*om  a  child  his 
reading  had  lain  in  the  dramatists,  and  generally  in 
the  great  imaginative  writers  of  the  sixteenth  and 
seventeenth  centuries.  Shakspeare  and  Milton  he 
knew  almost  by  heart :  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  Mas- 
singer,  Ford,  and  Webster  were  hardly  less  famihar 
to  him ;  and  next  to  these,  the  writers  of  the  so-called 
metaphysical  school,  the  later  developments  of  the 
Euphuistic  fashion,  had  the  strongest  fascination  for 
him.  Where  the  Fantastic  vein  took  the  pedantic- 
humorous  shape,  as  in  Burton;  or  the  metaphysical- 


Vlll 


INTRODUCTION 

humorous,  as  in  Sir  Thomas  Browne;  or  where  it 
was  combined  with  true  poetic  sensibiUty,  as  in 
Wither  and  Marvell, — of  these  springs  Lamb  had 
drunk  so  deeply  that  his  mind  was  saturated  with 
them.  His  own  nature  became  "subdued  to  what  it 
worked  in."  For  him  to  bear,  not  only  on  his  style, 
but  on  the  cast  of  his  mind  and  fancy,  the  mark  of 
these  writers,  and  many  more  in  whom  genius  and 
eccentricity  went  together,  was  no  matter  of  choice. 
It  was  this  that  constituted  the  "self-pleasing  quaint- 
ness"  of  his  literary  manner.  The  phrase  could  not 
be  improved.  Affectation  is  a  manner  put  on  to  im- 
press others.  Lamb's  manner  pleased  himself — and 
that  is  why,  to  use  a  famiUar  phrase,  he  was  "happy 
in  it." 

To  one  of  the  writers  just  named  Lamb  stands  in 
a  special  relation.  Sir  Thomas  Browne  was  at  once  a 
scholar,  a  mystic,  and  a  humorist.  His  humour  is  so 
grave  that,  when  he  is  enunciating  one  of  those  para- 
doxes he  loves  so  well,  it  is  often  impossible  to  tell 
whether  or  not  he  wears  a  smile  upon  his  face.  To 
Lamb  this  combination  of  characters  was  irresistible, 
for  in  it  he  saw  a  reflection  of  himself.  He  knew  the 
writings  of  Browne  so  well  that  not  only  does  he 
quote  him  more  often  than  any  other  author,  but 
whenever  he  has  to  confront  the  mysteries  of  life  and 


IX 


THE   ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

death  his  mental  attitude  at  once  assimilates  to 
Browne's,  and  his  English  begins  to  dilate  and  to 
become  sombre.  The  dominant  influence  on  Lamb 
in  his  reflective  mood  is  Browne.  His  love  of  para- 
dox, and  the  colour  of  his  style,  derived  from  the 
use  of  Latinised  words  never  thoroughly  acchma- 
tised,  is  also  from  the  same  source — a  use  which,  in 
the  hands  of  a  less  skilful  Latinist  than  Lamb, 
might  have  been  hazardous.  We  do  not  resent  his 
use  of  such  words  as  agnize^  arride,  reluct^  reduce 
(in  the  sense  of  "bring  back"),  or  even  such  por- 
tentous creations  as  sciential,  cognition,  intellectuals, 
and  the  like.  Lamb  could  not  have  lived  so  long 
among  the  writers  of  the  Renascence  without  shar- 
ing their  fondness  for  word-coinage.  And  the  flavour 
of  the  antique  in  style  he  felt  to  be  an  almost  indis- 
pensable accompaniment  to  the  antique  in  fancy. 

Another  feature  of  his  style  is  its  allusiveness. 
He  is  rich  in  quotations,  and  in  my  notes  I  have 
succeeded  in  tracing  most  of  them  to  their  source, 
a  matter  of  some  difficulty  in  Lamb's  case,  for  his 
inaccuracy  is  all  but  perverse.  But  besides  those 
avowedly  introduced  as  such,  his  style  is  fiill  of 
quotations  held — if  the  expression  may  be  allowed 
— in  solution.  One  feels,  rather  than  recognises,  that 
a  phrase  or  idiom  or  turn  of  expression  is  an  echo  of 


INTRODUCTION 

something  that  one  has  heard  or  read  before.  Yet 
such  is  the  use  made  of  his  material,  that  a  charm 
is  added  by  the  very  fact  that  we  are  thus  continu- 
ally renewing  our  experience  of  an  older  day.  His 
style  becomes  aromatic,  Hke  the  perfume  of  faded 
rose-leaves  in  a  china  jar.  With  such  allusiveness  as 
this,  I  need  not  say  that  I  have  not  meddled  in  my 
notes.  Its  whole  charm  Ues  in  our  recognising  it  for 
ourselves.  The  "prosperity"  of  an  allusion,  as  of  a 
jest,  "hes  in  the  ear  of  him  that  hears  it,"  and  it 
were  doing  a  poor  service  to  Lamb  or  his  readers  to 
draw  out  and  arrange  in  order  the  threads  he  has 
wrought  into  the  very  fabric  of  his  EngUsh. 

But  although  Lamb's  style  is  essentially  the  pro- 
duct of  the  authors  he  had  made  his  own,  nothing 
would  be  more  untrue  than  to  say  of  him  that  he 
read  nature,  or  anything  else,  "through  the  spec- 
tacles of  books."  Wordsworth  would  never  have 
called  to  hivi  to  leave  his  books  that  he  might  come 
forth,  and  bring  with  him  a  heart 

"That  watches  and  receives." 

It  is  to  his  own  keen  insight  and  intense  sympathy 
that  we  owe  everything  of  value  in  his  writing.  His 
observation  was  his  own,  though  when  he  gave  it 
back  into  the  world,  the  manner  of  it  was  the  crea- 

xi 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

tion  of  his  reading.  Where,  for  instance,  he  describes 
(and  it  is  seldom)  the  impression  produced  on  him 
by  country  sights  and  sounds,  there  is  not  a  trace 
discoverable  of  that  conventional  treatment  of  na- 
ture which  had  been  so  common  with  mere  book- 
men, before  Cowper  and  Burns.  Lamb  did  not  care 
greatly  for  the  country  and  its  associations.  Cus- 
tom had  made  the  presence  of  society,  streets  and 
crowds,  the  theatre  and  the  picture  gallery,  an  ab- 
solute necessity.  Yet  if  he  has  to  reproduce  a  mem- 
ory of  rural  life,  it  is  with  the  precision  and  tender- 
ness of  a  Wordsworth.  Take,  as  an  example,  this 
exquisite  glimpse  of  a  summer  afternoon  at  Blakes- 
ware: — "The  cheerful  store-room,  in  whose  hot 
window-seat  I  used  to  sit  and  read  Cowley,  with 
the  grass-plot  before,  and  the  hum  and  flappings  of 
that  one  solitary  wasp  that  ever  haunted  it,  about 
me — it  is  in  mine  ears  now,  as  oft  as  summer 
returns:"  or  again,  the  sweet  garden  scene  from 
Dream  Children,  where  the  spirit  of  AYordsworth 
seems  to  contend  for  mastery  with  the  fancifulness 
of  Marvell,  "because  I  had  more  pleasure  in  stroll- 
ing about  among  the  old  melancholy-looking  yew- 
trees,  or  the  firs,  and  picking  up  the  red  berries 
and  the  fir  apples,  which  were  good  for  nothing 
but  to  look  at — or  in  lying  about  upon  the  fresh 

xii 


INTRODUCTION 

grass,  with  all  the  fine  garden  smells  around  me 
— or  basking  in  the  orangery,  till  I  could  almost 
fancy  myself  ripening  too  along  with  the  oranges 
and  limes  in  that  grateful  warmth — or  in  watching 
the  dace  that  darted  to  and  fro  in  the  fish  pond  at 
the  bottom  of  the  garden,  with  here  and  there  a 
great  sulky  pike  hanging  midway  down  the  water 
in  silent  state,  as  if  it  mocked  at  their  impertinent 
friskings."  It  is  hard  to  say  whether  the  poet's  eye 
or  the  painter's  is  more  surely  exhibited  here.  The 
"solitary  wasp"  and  the  "sulky  pike"  are  master- 
touches  ;  and  in  the  following  passage  it  is  perhaps 
as  much  of  Cattermole  as  of  Goldsmith  or  Gray, 
that  we  are  reminded: — "But  would'st  thou  know 
the  beauty  of  holiness? — go  alone  on  some  week- 
day, borrowing  the  keys  of  good  IMaster  Sexton, 
traverse  the  cool  aisles  of  some  countiy  church: 
think  of  the  piety  that  has  kneeled  there — the 
meek  pastor — the  docile  parishioner.  With  no  dis- 
turbing emotions,  no  cross  conflicting  comparisons, 
drink  in  the  tranquillity  of  the  place,  till  thou  thy- 
self become  as  fixed  and  motionless  as  the  marble 
effigies  that  kneel  and  weep  around  thee." 

The  idea  that  some  readers  might  derive  from 
the  casual  titles  and  subjects  of  these  essays,  and 
the  discursiveness  of  their  treatment,  that  they  are 


Xlll 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

hasty  things  thrown  off  in  a  moment  of  high  spirits, 
is  of  course  erroneous.  Lamb  somewhere  writes  of 
the  essay  just  quoted,  as  a  "futile  effort  wrung  from 
him  with  slow  pain."  Perhaps  this  was  an  extreme 
case,  but  it  is  clear  that  most  of  the  essays  are  the 
result  of  careful  manipulation.  They  are  elaborate 
studies  in  style,  and  even  in  colour.  Nothing  is  more 
remarkable  about  the  essays  than  the  contrasts  of 
colour  they  present — another  illustration  of  Lamb's 
sympathy  with  the  painter's  art.  The  essay  on  the 
Chimney-Sweepers  is  a  study  in  black: — 

"I  hke  to  meet  a  sweep — understand  me — not  a 
grown  sweeper — old  chimney-sweepers  are  by  no 
means  attractive — but  one  of  those  tender  novices, 
blooming  through  their  first  nigritude,  the  maternal 
washings  not  quite  effaced  from  the  cheek — such  as 
come  forth  with  the  dawn,  or  somewhat  earlier,  with 
their  little  professional  notes  sounding  like  the  peep 
peep  of  a  young  sparrow ;  or  liker  to  the  matin  lark, 
shall  I  pronounce  them,  in  their  aerial  ascents  not 
seldom  anticipating  the  sunrise?  I  have  a  kindly 
yearning  towards  those  dim  specks — poor  blots — 
innocent  blacknesses — I  reverence  these  young  Af- 
ricans of  our  own  growth — these  almost  clergy 
imps,  who  sport  their  cloth  without  assumption." 

And  if  one  would  understand  Lamb's  skill  as  a 


XIV 


INTRODUCTION 

colourist,  let  him  turn  as  a  contrast  to  the  essay  on 
Quakers,  which  may  be  called  a  study  in  dove- 
colour: — "The  very  garments  of  a  Quaker  seem 
incapable  of  receiving  a  soil ;  and  cleanliness  in  them 
to  be  something  more  than  the  absence  of  its  con- 
trary. Every  Quakeress  is  a  lily;  and  when  they 
come  up  in  bands  to  their  Whitsun  conferences, 
whitening  the  easterly  streets  of  the  metropoUs, 
from  all  parts  of  the  United  Kingdom,  they  show 
like  troops  of  the  Shining  Ones." 

The  essay  on  Chimney-Sweepers  is  one  blaze  of 
wit,  which  yet  may  pass  unobserved  from  the  very 
richness  of  its  setting.  How  surprising,  and  at  the 
same  time  how  picturesque,  is  the  following: — "I 
seem  to  remember  having  been  told  that  a  bad 
sweep  was  once  left  in  the  stack  with  his  brush,  to 
indicate  which  way  the  wind  blew.  It  was  an  awful 
spectacle,  certainly,  not  much  unhke  the  old  stage 
direction  in  Macbeth,  where  the  'apparition  of  a  child 
crowned,  with  a  tree  in  his  hand,  rises.'"  Lamb's 
wit,  original  as  it  is,  shows  often  enough  the  influ- 
ence of  particular  models.  Of  all  old  writers,  none 
had  a  firmer  hold  on  his  affection  than  Fuller.  Now 
and  then  he  has  passages  in  deliberate  imitation  of 
Fuller's  manner.  The  descriptions,  in  detached  sen- 
tences, of  the  Poor  Relation  and  the  Convalescent 


XV 


THE   ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

are  Fuller  all  over.  When  Lamb  writes  of  the  Poor 
Relation — "He  entereth  smiling  and  embarrassed. 
He  holdeth  out  his  hand  to  you  to  shake,  and  draw- 
eth  it  back  again.  He  casually  looketh  in  about  din- 
ner-time, when  the  table  is  full," — and  so  on,  there 
can  be  no  doubt  that  he  had  in  mind  such  charac- 
terisation as  that  in  the  Good  Yeoman,  or  the  De- 
generous  Gentleman.  The  manner  is  due  originally, 
of  course,  to  Theophrastus,  but  it  was  from  Fuller, 
I  think,  that  Lamb  derived  his  fondness  for  it.  And 
throughout  his  writings  the  influence  of  this  hu- 
morist is  to  be  traced.  How  entirely  in  the  vein  of 
Fuller,  for  instance,  is  the  following: — "They  (the 
sweeps),  from  their  little  pulpits  (the  tops  of  chim- 
neys), preach  a  lesson  of  patience  to  mankind";  or 
this,  again,  from  the  essay  G?^ace  Before  Meat: — 
"Gluttony  and  surfeiting  are  no  proper  occasions 
for  thanksgiving.  When  Jeshurun  waxed  fat,  we 
read  that  he  kicked";  or,  once  more,  this  fine  com- 
ment on  the  stillness  of  the  Quaker's  worship: — 
"For  a  man  to  refrain  even  from  good  words  and 
to  hold  his  peace,  it  is  commendable ;  but  for  a  mul- 
titude, it  is  great  mastery." 

But  Lamb's  wit,  Uke  his  English,  is  Protean,  and 
just  as  we  think  we  have  fixed  its  character  and 
source,  it  escapes  into  new  forms.  In  simile  he  finds 


XVI 


INTRODUCTION 

opportunity  for  it  that  is  all  his  own.  What,  for 
instance,  can  be  more  surprising  in  its  unexpected- 
ness than  the  description  in  The  Old  Margate  Hoy 
of  the  ubiquitous  sailor  on  board: — "How  busily 
didst  thou  ply  thy  multifarious  occupation,  cook, 
mariner,  attendant,  chamberlain;  here,  there,  like 
another  Ariel,  flaming  at  once  about  all  parts  of 
the  deck"?  Again,  what  wit — or  shall  we  call  it 
humour — is  there  in  the  gravity  of  his  detail,  by 
which  he  touches  springs  of  delight  unreached  even 
by  Defoe  or  Swift;  as  in  Roast  Pig,  where  he  says 
that  the  "father  and  son  were  summoned  to  take 
their  trial  at  Pekin,  then  an  inconsiderable  assize 
town";  or  more  delightful  still,  later  on: — "Thus 
this  custom  of  firing  houses  continued,  till  in  pro- 
cess of  time,  says  my  manuscript,  a  sage  arose,  like 
our  Locke,  who  made  a  discovery  that  the  flesh 
of  swine,  or  indeed  of  any  other  animal,  might  be 
cooked  (burnt,  as  they  called  it)  without  the  neces- 
sity of  consuming  a  whole  house  to  dress  it."  Or, 
for  another  vein,  take  the  account  of  the  menda- 
cious traveller  he  affects  to  remember  as  a  fellow- 
passenger  on  his  early  voyage  in  the  old  Margate 
Hoy,  who  assures  his  admiring  listeners  that,  so  far 
from  the  Phoenix  being  a  unique  bird,  it  was  by  no 
means  uncommon  "in  some  parts  of  Upper  Egypt," 


XVU 


THE  ESSAYS  OF  ELIA 
where  the  whole  episode  is  not  one  jot  the  less  hu- 
morous because  it  is  clear  to  the  reader,  not  that  the 
traveller  invented  his  facts,  but  that  Lamb  mvented 
the  traveller.  Or  yet  once  more,  how  exquisitely 
unforeseen,  and  how  rich  in  tenderness,  is  the  fol- 
lowing remark  as  to  the  domestic  happiness  of  him- 
self and  his  "cousin  Bridget"  in  Mackcry  End: — 
"We  are  generally  in  harmony,  with  occasional 
bickerings — as  it  should  be  among  near  relations." 
What  is  the  name  for  this  antithesis  of  irony — this 
hiding  of  a  sweet  after-taste  in  a  bitter  word  ?  What- 
ever its  name,  it  is  a  dominant  flavour  in  Lamb's 
humour.  There  are  two  features,  I  think,  of  Lamb's 
method  which  distinguish  him  from  so  many  hu- 
morists of  to-day.  He  takes  homely  and  familiar 
things,  and  makes  them  fresh  and  beautiful.  The 
fashion  of  to-day  is  to  vulgarise  great  and  noble 
things  by  burlesque  associations.  The  humorist's 
contrast  is  obtained  in  both  cases ;  only  that  in  the 
one  it  elevates  the  commonplace,  and  in  the  other 
it  degrades  the  excellent.  And,  secondly,  in  this 
generation,  when  what  is  meant  to  raise  a  laugh  has, 
nine  times  out  of  ten,  its  root  in  cynicism,  it  should 
be  refreshing  to  turn  again  and  dwell  in  the  humane 
atmosphere  of  these  essays  of  Elia. 

To  many  other  qualities  that  go  to  make  up  that 

xviii 


INTRODUCTION 

highly  composite  thing,  Lamb's  humour — to  that 
feature  of  it  that  consists  in  the  unabashed  display 
of  his  own  unconventionaUty — his  difference  from 
other  people,  and  to  that  "metaphysical"  quality  of 
his  wit  which  belongs  to  him  in  a  far  truer  sense 
than  as  appHed  to  Cowley  and  his  school,  it  is  suffi- 
cient to  make  a  passing  reference.  But  the  mention 
of  Cowley,  by  whom  with  Fuller,  Donne,  and  the 
rest,  his  imagination  was  assuredly  shaped,  reminds 
us  once  more  of  the  charm  that  belongs  to  the  "old 
and  antique"  strain  heard  through  all  his  more  ear- 
nest utterances.  As  we  listen  to  Eha  the  moralist, 
now  with  the  terse  yet  stately  egotism  of  one 
old  master,  now  in  the  long-drawn-out  harmonies 
of  another,  we  live  again  with  the  thinkers  and 
dreamers  of  two  centuries  ago.  Sometimes  he  con- 
fides to  us  weaknesses  that  few  men  are  bold  enough 
to  avow,  as  when  he  tells  how  he  dreaded  death 
and  clung  to  Hfe.  "I  am  not  content  to  pass  away 
*like  a  weaver's  shuttle.'  These  metaphors  solace  me 
not,  nor  sweeten  the  unpalatable  draught  of  mor- 
tality. I  care  not  to  be  carried  with  the  tide,  and 
reluct  at  the  inevitable  course  of  destiny.  I  am  in 
love  with  this  green  earth;  the  face  of  town  and 
country;  the  unspeakable  rural  solitudes,  and  the 
sweet  security  of  streets."  There  is  an  essay  by 


XIX 


THE   ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

Lamb's  friend  Hazlitt  on  the  Fear  of  Deathy  which 
it  is  interesting  to  compare  with  this.  The  one  essay 
may  have  been  possibly  suggested  by  the  other. 
Hazhtt  is  that  one  of  Lamb's  contemporaries  with 
whom  it  is  natural  to  compare  him.  There  are,  in- 
deed, obvious  points  of  resemblance  between  them. 
Hazlitt  wrote  a  vigorous  and  flexible  style ;  he  could 
quote  Shakspeare  and  Milton  as  copiously  as  Lamb ; 
he  wrote  on  Lamb's  class  of  subjects ;  he  shared  his 
love  of  paradoxes  and  his  frank  egotistical  method. 
But  here  all  Hkeness  ends.  HazUtt's  essay  is  on  the 
text  that,  since  it  does  not  pain  us  to  reflect  that 
there  was  once  a  time  when  we  did  not  exist,  so 
it  should  be  no  pain  to  think  that  at  some  future 
time  the  same  state  of  things  shall  be.  But  this 
Hght-hearted  attempt  at  consolation  is  found  to  be 
more  depressing  than  the  melancholy  of  Lamb,  for 
it  lacks  the  two  things  needful,  the  accent  of  abso- 
lute sincerity,  and  a  nature  unsoured  by  the  world. 
But  Lamb  had  his  serener  moods,  and  in  one  of 
these  let  us  part  from  him.  The  essay  on  the  Old 
Benchers  of  the  Inner  Temple  is  one  of  the  most 
varied  and  beautiful  pieces  of  prose  that  English 
literature  can  boast.  Eminently,  moreover,  does  it 
show  us  Lamb  as  the  product  of  two  different  ages 
— the  child  of  the  Renascence  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 


XX 


INTRODUCTION 

tury  and  of  that  of  the  nineteenth.  It  is  as  if  both 
Spenser  and  Wordsworth  had  laid  hands  of  bless- 
ing upon  his  head.  This  is  how  he  writes  of  his 
childhood,  when  the  old  lawyers  paced  to  and  fro 
before  him  on  the  Terrace  Walk,  making  up  to  his 
childish  eyes  "the  mythology  of  the  Temple": — 

"In  those  days  I  saw  Gods,  as  'old  men  covered 
with  a  mantle,'  walking  upon  the  earth.  Let  the 
dreams  of  classic  idolatry  perish — extinct  be  the 
fairies  and  fairy  trumpery  of  legendary  fabling — in 
the  heart  of  childhood  there  will  for  ever  spring  up 
a  well  of  innocent  or  wholesome  superstition — the 
seeds  of  exaggeration  will  be  busy  there,  and  vital, 
from  everyday  forms  educing  the  unknown  and 
the  uncommon.  In  that  little  Goshen  there  will  be 
hght  when  the  grown  world  flounders  about  in  the 
darkness  of  sense  and  materiality.  While  childhood, 
and  while  dreams  reducing  childhood,  shall  be  left, 
imagination  shall  not  have  spread  her  holy  wings 
totally  to  fly  the  earth." 

It  is  in  such  passages  as  these  that  Lamb  shows 
himself,  what  indeed  he  is,  the  last  of  the  Eliza- 
bethans. He  had  "learned  their  great  language," 
and  yet  he  had  early  discovered,  with  the  keen  eye 
of  a  humorist,  how  effective  for  his  purpose  was 
the  touch  of  the  pedantic  and  the  fantastical  from 


XXI 


THE   ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

which  the  noblest  of  them  were  not  wholly  free. 
He  was  thus  able  to  make  even  their  weaknesses  a 
fresh  source  of  delight,  as  he  dealt  with  them  from 
the  vailtage  ground  of  two  centuries.  It  may  seem 
strange,  on  first  thoughts,  that  the  fashion  of  Lamb's 
style  should  not  have  grown,  in  its  turn,  old-fash- 
ioned ;  that,  on  the  contrary,  no  literary  reputation 
of  sixty  years'  standing  should  seem  more  certain 
of  its  continuance.  But  it  is  not  the  antique  man- 
ner— the  "self-pleasing  quaintness" — that  has  em- 
balmed the  substance.  Rather  is  there  that  in  the 
substance  which  ensures  immortality  for  the  style. 
It  is  one  of  the  rewards  of  purity  of  heart  that, 
allied  with  humour,  it  has  the  promise  of  perennial 
charm.  "Saint  Charles!"  exclaimed  Thackeray  one 
day,  as  he  finished  reading  once  more  the  original 
of  one  of  Lamb's  letters  to  Bernard  Barton.  There 
was  much  in  Lamb's  habits  and  manners  that  we 
do  not  associate  with  the  saintly  ideal ;  but  patience 
under  suffering  and  a  boundless  sympathy  hold  a 
large  place  in  that  ideal,  and  in  Charles  Lamb  these 
were  not  found  wanting. 

I  would  add  a  few  words  on  the  kind  of  infor- 
mation I  have  sought  to  furnish  in  my  Notes.  The 
impertinence  of  criticism  or  comment,  I  hope  has 

xxii 


INTRODUCTION 

been  almost  entirely  avoided.  But  there  was  a  cer- 
tain waywardness  and  love  of  practical  joking  in 
Charles  Lamb  that  led  him  often  to  treat  matters 
of  fact  with  dehberate  falsification.  His  essays  are 
full  of  autobiography,  but  often  purposely  disguised, 
whether  to  amuse  those  who  were  in  the  secret,  or 
to  perplex  those  who  were  not,  it  is  impossible  to 
say.  In  his  own  day,  therefore,  corrections  of  fact 
would  have  either  been  superfluous,  or  would  have 
spoiled  the  jest;  but  now  that  Lamb's  contempora- 
ries are  all  but  passed  away,  much  of  the  humour 
of  his  method  is  lost  without  some  clue  to  the 
many  disguises  and  perversions  of  fact  with  which 
the  essays  abound.  They  are  full,  for  instance,  of 
references  to  actual  persons,  by  means  of  initials  or 
other  devices.  To  readers  fairly  conversant  with  the 
literary  history  of  Lamb's  time,  many  of  these  dis- 
guises are  transparent  enough ;  but  for  others,  notes 
here  and  there  are  indispensable.  We  have  an  au- 
thentic clue  to  most  of  the  initials  or  asterisks 
employed  in  the  first  series  of  EUa.  There  is  in 
existence  a  list  of  these  initials  drawn  up  by  some 
unknown  hand,  and  filled  in  with  the  real  names 
by  Lamb  himself.  Through  the  kindness  of  its  pos- 
sessor, Mr.  Alexander  Ireland  of  Manchester,  the 
original  of  this  interesting  relic  has  been  in  my 


xxui 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

hands,  and  I  can  vouch  for  the  handwriting,  phra- 
seology, and  (it  may  be  added)  the  spelling  being 
indubitably  Lamb's. 

There  is  much  information  in  these  essays,  more 
or  less  disguised,  about  Lamb's  relatives,  and  I 
have  tried  to  illustrate  these  points  by  details  of 
his  family  history  for  which  I  had  not  space  in 
my  Memoir  of  Lamb.  In  a  few  instances  I  have 
permitted  myself  to  repeat  some  sentences  from 
that  memoir,  where  the  same  set  of  circumstances 
had  to  be  narrated  again.  But  apart  from  changes 
of  names  and  incidents  in  the  essays,  there  is  in 
Lamb's  humour  the  constant  element  of  a  mis- 
chievous love  of  hoaxing.  He  loves  nothing  so 
much  as  to  mingle  romance  with  reality,  so  that 
it  shall  be  difficult  for  the  reader  to  disentangle 
them.  Sometimes  he  deals  with  fiction  as  if  it  were 
fact;  and  sometimes,  after  supplying  Uteral  facts, 
he  ends  with  the  insinuation  that  they  are  ficti- 
tious. And  besides  these  deliberate  mystifications, 
there  is  found  also  in  Lamb  a  certain  natural  in- 
capacity for  being  accurate — an  inveterate  turn  for 
the  opposite.  "What  does  Elia  care  for  dates?"  he 
asks  in  one  of  his  letters,  and  indeed  about  ac- 
curacy in  any  such  trifles  he  did  not  greatly  care. 
In  the  matter  of  quotation,  as  already  remarked. 


XXIV 


INTRODUCTION 

this  is  curiously  shown.  He  seldom  quotes  even 
a  hackneyed  passage  from  Shakspeare  or  Milton 
correctly ;  and  sometimes  he  half-remembers  a  pas- 
sage from  some  old  author,  and  re-writes  it,  to  suit 
the  particular  subject  he  wishes  it  to  illustrate.  I 
have  succeeded  in  tracing  all  but  two  or  three  of 
the  many  quotations  occurring  in  the  essays,  and 
they  serve  to  show  the  remarkable  range  and  va- 
riety of  his  reading. 

It  is  generally  known  that  when  Lamb  collected 
his  essays,  for  publication  in  book  form,  from  the 
pages  of  the  London  and  other  magazines,  he 
omitted  certain  passages.  These  I  have  thought  it 
right,  as  a  rule,  not  to  restore.  In  most  cases  the 
reason  for  their  omission  is  obvious.  They  were  ex- 
crescences or  digressions,  injuring  the  effect  of  the 
essay  as  a  whole.  In  the  few  instances  in  which  I 
have  retained  a  note,  or  other  short  passage,  from 
the  original  versions  of  the  essays,  I  have  shown 
that  this  is  the  case  by  enclosing  it  in  brackets. 

I  have  to  thank  many  friends,  and  many  known 
to  me  only  by  their  high  literary  reputation,  for 
courteous  and  ready  help  in  investigating  points 
connected  with  Lamb's  writings.  Among  these  I 
would  mention  Mr.  Alexander  Ireland  of  Man- 
chester; Mr.  Richard  Garnett  of  the  British  Mu- 


XXV 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

seum;  and,  as  before,  my  friend  Mr.  J.  E.  Davis, 
counsel  to  the  Commissioners  of  Police,  who  has 
given  many  valuable  suggestions  and  constant  as- 
sistance of  other  kinds.  I  must  also  express  my  ac- 
knowledgments to  Mr.  W.  J.  Jeaffreson,  of  Folke- 
stone, and  to  the  family  of  the  late  Mr.  Arthur 
Loveday  of  Wardington,  Banbury,  for  permis- 
sion to  make  extracts  from  unpubhshed  letters 
of  Lamb's  in  their  possession. 


1883 


NOTES 

NOTE  TO   NEW  EDITION 

Several  corrections  and  additions  have  been  made  in 
the  Notes  to  the  present  Edition. 

January  1887 

NOTE  TO  PRESENT  EDITION 

A  few  corrections,  and  some  further  additions,  it  is 
hoped,  of  interest  and  value,  are  made  in  the  present 
Edition, 

June  1899 


CONTENTS 

VAOE 

the  south-sea  house  1 

oxford  in  the  vacation  13 
Christ's  hospital  five  and  thirty  years  ago  24 

the  two  races  of  men  44 

NEW   year's   eve  53 

MRS.    battle's   opinions   ON   WHIST  63 

A   chapter   on    ears  74 

ALL   fools'   day  82 

A   QUAKERS'   MEETING  88 

THE    OLD    AND    THE   NEW    SCHOOLMASTER  9^ 

IMPERFECT    SYMPATHIES  109 

WITCHES,    AND   OTHER   NIGHT   FEARS  122 

valentine's    day  132 

MY   RELATIONS  137 

MACKERY   END,    IN   HERTFORDSHIRE  147 

MY   FIRST   PLAY  155 

MODERN   GALLANTRY  l62 

THE   OLD   BENCHERS   OF   THE   INNER   TEMPLE  l69 

GRACE    BEFORE    MEAT  186 
•                                                                 XX  ix 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

PAGE 

DREAM    children;   A    REVERIE  IpT 

DISTANT   CORRESPONDENTS  208 

THE   PRAISE   OF   CHIMNEY-SWEEPERS  212 

A    COMPLAINT    OF   THE   DECAY  OF  BEGGARS    IN 

THE   METROPOLIS  223 

A  DISSERTATION   UPON    ROAST   PIG  235 

A   bachelor's  complaint  of  THE  BEHAVIOUR 

OF   MARRIED    PEOPLE  246 

ON   SOME   OF   THE   OLD   ACTORS  267 

ON    THE    ARTIFICIAL    COMEDY     OF     THE     LAST 

CENTURY  275 

ON   THE   ACTING   OF   MUNDEN  288 

NOTES  295 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


PORTRAIT  OF  CHARLES  LAMB  frontispiece 

Photogravure  after  the  portrait  hy  H.  Meyer 

FACING    PAGE 

PORTRAIT  OF  ROBERT  SOUTHEY  '  182 

"A  SAGE  AROSE  — WHO  MADE  A  DISCOVERY"  240 

"  A  BACHELOR'S  COMPLAINT  OF  THE  BEHAVIOR 
OF  MAR-IIED  PEOPLE"  S46 

PORTRAIT  OF  MADAME  D'ARBLAY  <96» 


THE  ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 


THE   ESSAYS    OF   ELIA 


THE   SOUTH-SEA   HOUSE 

READER,  in  thy  passage  from  the  Bank — 
where  thou  hast  been  receiving  thy  half-yearly 
dividends  (supposing  thou  art  a  lean  annuitant  like 
myself) — to  the  Flower  Pot,  to  secure  a  place  for 
Dalston,  or  Shacklewell,  or  some  other  thy  subur- 
ban retreat  northerly — didst  thou  never  observe  a 
melancholy-looking,  handsome,  brick  and  stone  edi- 
fice, to  the  left,  where  Threadneedle  Street  abuts 
upon  Bishopsgate?  I  dare  say  thou  hast  often  ad- 
mired its  magnificent  portals  ever  gaping  wide,  and 
disclosing  to  view  a  grave  court,  with  cloisters  and 
pillars,  with  few  or  no  traces  of  goers-in  or  comers- 
out — a  desolation  something  like  Balclutha's.^ 

This  was  once  a  house  of  trade — a  centre  of  busy 
interests.  The  throng  of  merchants  was  here — the 
quick  pulse  of  gain — and  here  some  forms  of  busi- 
ness are  still  kept  up,  though  the  soul  be  long  since 
fled.  Here  are  still  to  be  seen  stately  porticoes;  im- 
posing staircases;  offices  roomy  as  the  state  apart- 
ments in  palaces — deserted,  or  thinly  peopled  with 
a  few  stragghng  clerks;  the  still  more  sacred  inte- 
riors of  court  and  committee  rooms,  with  venerable 


^  I  passed  by  the  walls  of  Balclutha,  and  they  were  desolate. — 

OSSIAN. 

1 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

faces  of  beadles,  door-keepers — directors  seated  in 
form  on  solemn  days  (to  proclaim  a  dead  dividend) 
at  long  worm-eaten  tables,  that  have  been  mahog- 
any, with  tarnished  gilt-leather  coverings,  support- 
ing massy  silver  inkstands  long  since  dry; — the 
oaken  wainscots  hung  with  pictures  of  deceased 
governors  and  sub-governors,  of  Queen  Anne,  and 
the  two  first  monarchs  of  the  Brunswick  dynasty ; 
— huge  charts,  which  subsequent  discoveries  have 
antiquated ; — dusty  maps  of  Mexico,  dim  as  dreams, 
and  soundings  of  the  Bay  of  Panama!  The  long 
passages  hung  with  buckets,  appended,  in  idle  row, 
to  walls,  whose  substance  might  defy  any,  short  of 
the  last,  conflagration :  with  vast  ranges  of  cellarage 
under  all,  where  dollars  and  pieces  of  eight  once 
lay,  an  "unsunned  heap,"  for  Mammon  to  have 
solaced  his  solitary  heart  withal — long  since  dissi- 
pated, or  scattered  into  air  at  the  blast  of  the  break- 
ing of  that  famous  Bubble. 


Such  is  the  South-Sea  House.  At  least  such  it 
was  forty  years  ago,  when  I  knew  it — a  magnifi- 
cent relic !  What  alterations  may  have  been  made 
in  it  since,  I  have  had  no  opportunities  of  verifying. 
Time,  I  take  for  granted,  has  not  freshened  it.  No 
wind  has  resuscitated  the  face  of  the  sleeping  waters. 
A  thicker  crust  by  this  time  stagnates  upon  it.  The 
moths,  that  were  then  battening  upon  its  obsolete 
ledgers  and  day-books,  have  rested  from  their  depre- 
dations, but  other  light  generations  have  succeeded, 
making  fine  fretwork  among  their  single  and  double 
2 


THE   SOUTH-SEA   HOUSE 

entries.  Layers  of  dust  have  accumulated  (a  super- 
foetation  of  dirt!)  upon  the  old  layers,  that  seldom 
used  to  be  disturbed,  save  by  some  curious  finger, 
now  and  then,  inquisitive  to  explore  the  mode  of 
book-keeping  in  Queen  Anne's  reign;  cr,  with  less 
hallowed  curiosity,  seeking  to  unveil  some  of  the 
mysteries  of  that  tremendous  hoax,  whose  extent 
the  petty  peculators  of  our  day  look  back  upon  with 
the  same  expression  of  incredulous  admiration  and 
hopeless  ambition  of  rivalry  as  would  become  the 
puny  face  of  modem  conspiracy  contemplating  the 
Titan  size  of  Vaux's  superhuman  plot. 

Peace  to  the  manes  of  the  Bubble!  Silence  and 
destitution  are  upon  thy  walls,  proud  house,  for  a 
memorial ! 

Situated,  as  thou  art,  in  the  very  heart  of  stirring 
and  living  commerce — amid  the  fret  and  fever  of 
speculation — with  the  Bank,  and  the  'Change,  and 
the  India  House  about  thee,  in  the  heyday  of  pres- 
ent prosperity,  with  their  important  faces,  as  it  were, 
insulting  thee,  their  poor  ndghhour  out  of  business 
— to  the  idle  and  merely  contemplative — to  such 
as  me,  old  house!  there  is  a  charm  in  thy  quiet: — a 
cessation — a  coolness  from  business — an  indolence 
almost  cloistral — which  is  delightful!  With  what 
reverence  have  I  paced  thy  great  bare  rooms  and 
courts  at  eventide!  They  spoke  of  the  past: — the 
shade  of  some  dead  accountant,  with  visionary  pen 
in  ear,  would  flit  by  me,  stiff  as  in  life.  Living  ac- 
counts and  accountants  puzzle  me.  I  have  no  skill 

3 


THE  ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

in  figuring.  But  thy  great  dead  tomes,  which  scarce 
three  degenerate  clerks  of  the  present  day  could  lift 
from  their  enshrining  shelves — with  their  old  fan- 
tastic flourishes  and  decorative  rubric  interlacings 
— their  sums  in  triple  columniations,  set  down  with 
formal  superfluity  of  ciphers — with  pious  sentences 
at  the  beginning,  without  which  our  religious  ances- 
tors never  ventured  to  open  a  book  of  business,  or 
bill  of  lading — the  costly  vellum  covers  of  some  of 
them  almost  persuading  us  that  we  are  got  into  some 
better  library — are  very  agreeable  and  edifying  spec- 
tacles. I  can  look  upon  these  defunct  dragons  with 
complacency.  Thy  heavy  odd-shaped  ivory-handled 
penknives  (our  ancestors  had  everything  on  a  larger 
scale  than  we  have  hearts  for)  are  as  good  as  any- 
thing from  Herculaneum.  The  pounce-boxes  of  our 
days  have  gone  retrograde. 

The  very  clerks  which  I  remember  in  the  South- 
Sea  House — I  speak  of  forty  years  back — had  an 
air  very  different  from  those  in  the  public  offices 
that  I  have  had  to  do  with  since.  They  partook  of 
the  genius  of  the  place ! 

They  were  mostly  (for  the  establishment  did  not 
admit  of  superfluous  salaries)  bachelors.  Generally 
(for  they  had  not  much  to  do)  persons  of  a  curious 
and  speculative  turn  of  mind.  Old-fashioned,  for  a 
reason  mentioned  before;  humourists,  for  they  were 
of  all  descriptions;  and,  not  having  been  brought 
together  in  early  life  (which  has  a  tendency  to  as- 
similate the  members  of  corporate  bodies  to  each 


THE   SOUTH-SEA   HOUSE 

other),  but,  for  the  most  part,  placed  in  this  house 
in  ripe  or  middle  age,  they  necessarily  carried  into 
it  their  separate  habits  and  oddities,  unqualified,  if 
I  may  so  speak,  as  into  a  common  stock.  Hence 
they  formed  a  sort  of  Noah's  ark.  Odd  fishes.  A  lay- 
monastery.  Domestic  retainers  in  a  great  house,  kept 
more  for  show  than  use.  Yet  pleasant  fellows,  full 
of  chat — and  not  a  few  among  them  had  arrived  at 
considerable  proficiency  on  the  German  flute. 

The  cashier  at  that  time  was  one  Evans,  a  Cam- 
bro-Briton.  He  had  something  of  the  choleric  com- 
plexion of  his  countrymen  stamped  on  his  visage, 
but  was  a  worthy,  sensible  man  at  bottom.  He  wore 
his  hair,  to  the  last,  powdered  and  frizzed  out,  in 
the  fashion  which  I  remember  to  have  seen  in  cari- 
catures of  what  were  termed,  in  my  young  days, 
Maccaronies.  He  was  the  last  of  that  race  of  beaux. 
Melancholy  as  a  gib-cat  over  his  counter  all  the 
forenoon,  I  think  I  see  him  making  up  his  cash  (as 
they  call  it)  with  tremulous  fingers,  as  if  he  feared 
every  one  about  him  was  a  defaulter;  in  his  hypo- 
chondry,  ready  to  imagine  himself  one ;  haunted,  at 
least,  with  the  idea  of  the  possibility  of  his  becom- 
ing one:  his  tristful  visage  clearing  up  a  little  over 
his  roast  neck  of  veal  at  Anderton  s  at  two  (where 
his  picture  still  hangs,  taken  a  little  before  his  death 
by  desire  of  the  master  of  the  coffee-house  which  he 
had  frequented  for  the  last  five-and-twenty  years), 
but  not  attaining  the  meridian  of  its  animation  till 
evening  brought  on  the  hour  of  tea  and  visiting. 


THE   ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

The  simultaneous  sound  of  his  well-known  rap  at 
the  door  with  the  stroke  of  the  clock  announcing 
six,  was  a  topic  of  never-failing  mirth  in  the  fami- 
lies which  this  dear  old  bachelor  gladdened  with 
his  presence.  Then  was  \iis  forte,  his  glorified  hour! 
How  would  he  chii-p  and  expand  over  a  muffin !  How 
would  he  dilate  into  secret  history!  His  country- 
man, Pennant  himself,  in  particular,  could  not  be 
more  eloquent  than  he  in  relation  to  old  and  new 
London — the  site  of  old  theatres,  churches,  streets 
gone  to  decay — where  Rosamond's  pond  stood — the 
Mulberry -gardens — and  the  Conduit  in  Cheap — 
with  many  a  pleasant  anecdote,  derived  from  pater- 
nal tradition,  of  those  grotesque  figures  which  Ho- 
garth has  immortalized  in  his  picture  of  Noon — the 
worthy  descendants  of  those  heroic  confessors,  who, 
flying  to  this  country  from  the  wrath  of  Louis  the 
Fourteenth  and  his  dragoons,  kept  alive  the  flame 
of  pure  religion  in  the  sheltering  obscurities  of  Hog 
Lane  and  the  vicinity  of  the  Seven  Dials ! 

Deputy,  under  Evans,  was  Thomas  Tame.  He 
had  the  air  and  stoop  of  a  nobleman.  You  would 
have  taken  him  for  one,  had  you  met  him  in  one 
of  the  passages  leading  to  Westminster  Hall.  By 
stoop,  I  mean  that  gentle  bending  of  the  body  for- 
wards, which,  in  great  men,  must  be  supposed  to 
be  the  effect  of  an  habitual  condescending  atten- 
tion to  the  applications  of  their  inferiors.  While  he 
held  you  in  converse,  you  felt  strained  to  the  height 
in  the  colloquy.  The  conference  over,  you  were  at 
6 


THE   SOUTH-SEA   HOUSE 

leisure  to  smile  at  the  comparative  insignificance  of 
the  pretensions  which  had  just  awed  you.  His  in- 
tellect was  of  the  shallowest  order.  It  did  not  reach 
to  a  saw  or  a  proverb.  His  mind  was  in  its  original 
state  of  white  paper.  A  sucking  babe  might  have 
posed  him.  What  was  it  then?  Was  he  rich?  Alas, 
no!  Thomas  Tame  was  very  poor.  Both  he  and  his 
wife  looked  outwardly  gentlefolks,  when  I  fear  all 
was  not  well  at  all  times  within.  She  had  a  neat 
meagre  person,  which  it  was  evident  she  had  not 
sinned  in  over-pampering ;  but  in  its  veins  was  noble 
blood.  She  traced  her  descent,  by  some  labyrinth  of 
relationship,  which  I  never  thoroughly  understood, 
— much  less  can  explain  with  any  heraldic  certainty 
at  this  time  of  day, — to  the  illustrious  but  unfor- 
tunate house  of  Derwentwater.  This  was  the  secret 
of  Thomas's  stoop.  This  was  the  thought — the  sen- 
timent— the  bright  solitary  star  of  your  lives, — ye 
mild  and  happy  pair, — which  cheered  you  in  the 
night  of  intellect,  and  in  the  obscurity  of  your  sta- 
tion! This  was  to  you  instead  of  riches,  instead  of 
rank,  instead  of  glittering  attainments:  and  it  was 
worth  them  all  together.  You  insulted  none  with 
it;  but,  while  you  wore  it  as  a  piece  of  defensive 
armour  only,  no  insult  likewise  could  reach  you 
through  it.  Decus  et  solamen. 

Of  quite  another  stamp  was  the  then  accountant, 
John  Tipp.  He  neither  pretended  to  high  blood,  nor 
in  good  truth  cared  one  fig  about  the  matter.  He 
"thought  an  accountant  the  greatest  character  in 

7 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

the  world,  and  himself  the  greatest  accountant  in 
it."  Yet  John  was  not  without  his  hobby.  The  fiddle 
relieved  his  vacant  hours.  He  sang,  certainly,  with 
other  notes  than  to  the  Orphean  lyre.  He  did,  in- 
deed, scream  and  scrape  most  abominably.  His  fine 
suite  of  official  rooms  in  Threadneedle  Street,  which, 
without  anything  very  substantial  appended  to 
them,  were  enough  to  enlarge  a  man's  notions  of 
himself  that  lived  in  them  (I  know  not  who  is  the 
occupier  of  them  now^),  resounded  fortnightly  to 
the  notes  of  a  concert  of  "sweet  breasts,"  as  our  an- 
cestors would  have  called  them,  culled  from  club- 
rooms  and  orchestras — chorus  singers — first  and 
second  violoncellos — double  basses — and  clarionets 
— who  ate  his  cold  mutton  and  drank  his  punch  and 
praised  his  ear.  He  sat  like  Lord  Midas  among 
them.  But  at  the  desk  Tipp  was  quite  another  sort 
of  creature.  Thence  all  ideas,  that  were  purely  orna- 
mental, were  banished.  You  could  not  speak  of  any- 
thing romantic  without  rebuke.  Politics  were  ex- 
cluded. A  newspaper  was  thought  too  refined  and 
abstracted.  The  whole  duty  of  man  consisted  in 
writing  off  dividend  warrants.  The  striking  of  the 
annual  balance  in  the  company's  books  (which,  per- 

^  [I  have  since  been  informed,  that  the  present  tenant  of  them 
is  a  Mr.  Lamb,  a  gentleman  who  is  happy  in  the  possession  of 
some  choice  pictures,  and  among  them  a  rare  portrait  of  Milton, 
which  I  mean  to  do  myself  the  pleasure  of  going  to  see,  and  at 
the  same  time  to  refresh  my  memory  with  the  sight  of  old 
scenes.  Mr.  Lamb  has  the  character  of  a  right  courteous  and 
communicative  collector.] 
8 


THE   SOUTH-SEA   HOUSE 

haps,  differed  from  the  balance  of  last  year  in  the 
sum  of  £25  :  1  :  6)  occupied  his  days  and  nights  for 
a  month  previous.  Not  that  Tipp  was  bhnd  to  the 
deadness  of  things  (as  they  called  them  in  the  city) 
in  his  beloved  house,  or  did  not  sigh  for  a  return  of 
the  old  stirring  days  when  South- Sea  hopes  were 
young  (he  was  indeed  equal  to  the  wielding  of  any 
the  most  intricate  accounts  of  the  most  flourishing 
company  in  these  or  those  days) :  but  to  a  genuine 
accountant  the  difference  of  proceeds  is  as  nothing. 
The  fractional  farthing  is  as  dear  to  his  heart  as  the 
thousands  which  stand  before  it.  He  is  the  true  ac- 
tor, who,  whether  his  part  be  a  prince  or  a  peasant, 
must  act  it  with  like  intensity.  With  Tipp  form  was 
everything.  His  life  was  formal.  His  actions  seemed 
ruled  with  a  ruler.  His  pen  was  not  less  erring  than 
his  heart.  He  made  the  best  executor  in  the  world: 
he  was  plagued  with  incessant  executorships  accord- 
ingly, which  excited  his  spleen  and  soothed  his  van- 
ity in  equal  ratios.  He  would  swear  (for  Tipp  swore) 
at  the  little  orphans,  whose  rights  he  would  guard 
with  a  tenacity  like  the  grasp  of  the  dying  hand  that 
commended  their  interests  to  his  protection.  With 
all  this  there  was  about  him  a  sort  of  timidity  (his 
few  enemies  used  to  give  it  a  worse  name) — a  some- 
thing which,  in  reverence  to  the  dead,  we  will  place, 
if  you  please,  a  little  on  this  side  of  the  heroic.  Na- 
ture certainly  had  been  pleased  to  endow  John  Tipp 
with  a  sufficient  measure  of  the  principle  of  self- 
preservation.  There  is  a  cowardice  which  we  do  not 

9 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

despise,  because  it  has  nothing  base  or  treacherous 
in  its  elements;  it  betrays  itself,  not  you:  it  is  mere 
temperament;  the  absence  of  the  romantic  and  the 
enterprising ;  it  sees  a  lion  in  the  way,  and  will  not, 
with  Fortinbras,  "greatly  find  quarrel  in  a  straw," 
when  some  supposed  honour  is  at  stake.  Tipp  never 
mounted  the  box  of  a  stage-coach  in  his  life;  or 
leaned  against  the  rails  of  a  balcony;  or  walked  upon 
the  ridge  of  a  parapet;  or  looked  down  a  precipice; 
or  let  off  a  gun;  or  went  upon  a  water-party;  or 
would  willingly  let  you  go  if  he  could  have  helped 
it:  neither  was  it  recorded  of  him,  that  for  lucre,  or 
for  intimidation,  he  ever  forsook  friend  or  principle. 
Whom  next  shall  we  summon  from  the  dusty 
dead,  in  whom  common  qualities  become  uncom- 
mon? Can  I  forget  thee,  Henry  Man,  the  wit,  the 
polished  man  of  letters,  the  author^  of  the  South- 
Sea  House?  who  never  enteredst  thy  office  in  a 
morning  or  quittedst  it  in  mid-day  (what  didst  thou 
in  an  office?)  without  some  quirk  that  left  a  sting  I 
Thy  gibes  and  thy  jokes  are  now  extinct,  or  survive 
but  in  two  forgotten  volumes,  which  I  had  the  good 
fortune  to  rescue  from  a  stall  in  Barbican,  not  three 
days  ago,  and  found  thee  terse,  fresh,  epigrammatic, 
as  alive.  Thy  wit  is  a  little  gone  by  in  these  fastid- 
ious days — thy  topics  are  staled  by  the  "new-born 
gauds"  of  the  time: — but  great  thou  used  to  be  in 
Public  Ledgers,  and  in  Chronicles,  upon  Chatham, 
and  Shelburne,  and  Rockingham,  and  Howe,  and 
Burgoyne,  and  Clinton,  and  the  war  which  ended  in 
10 


THE   SOUTH-SEA   HOUSE 

the  tearing  from  Great  Britain  her  rebellious  colo- 
nies,— and  Keppel,  and  Wilkes,  and  Sawbridge,  and 
Bull,  and  Dunning,  and  Pratt,  and  Richmond — 
and  such  small  politics. 

A  little  less  facetious,  and  a  great  deal  more  ob- 
streperous, was  fine  rattling,  rattle-headed  Plumer. 
He  was  descended, — not  in  a  right  line,  reader  (for 
his  lineal  pretensions,  like  his  personal,  favoured  a 
little  of  the  sinister  bend) — from  the  Plumers  of 
Hertfordshire.  So  tradition  gave  him  out;  and  cer- 
tain family  features  not  a  little  sanctioned  the  opin- 
ion. Certainly  old  Walter  Plumer  (his  reputed  au- 
thor) had  been  a  rake  in  his  days,  and  visited  much 
in  Italy,  and  had  seen  the  world.  He  was  uncle, 
bachelor-uncle,  to  the  fine  old  whig  still  living,  who 
has  represented  the  county  in  so  many  successive 
parliaments,  and  has  a  fine  old  mansion  near  Ware. 
Walter  flourished  in  George  the  Second's  days,  and 
was  the  same  who  was  summoned  before  the  House 
of  Commons  about  a  business  of  franks,  with  the 
old  Duchess  of  Marlborough.  You  may  read  of  it  in 
Johnson's  Life  of  Cave.  Cave  came  off  cleverly  in 
that  business.  It  is  certain  our  Plumer  did  nothino; 
to  discountenance  the  rumour.  He  rather  seemed 
pleased  whenever  it  was,  with  all  gentleness,  insin- 
uated. But  besides  his  family  pretensions,  Plumer 
was  an  engaging  fellow,  and  sang  gloriously. 

Not  so  sweetly  sang  Plumer  as  thou  sangest,  mild, 

child-like,  pastoral  M ;  a  flute's  breathing  less 

divinely  whispering  than  thy  Arcadian  melodies, 

11 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

when,  in  tones  worthy  of  Arden,  thou  didst  chant 
that  song  sung  by  Amiens  to  the  banished  duke, 
which  proclaims  the  winter  wind  more  lenient  than 
for  a  man  to  be  ungrateful.  Thy  sire  was  old  surly 

M ,  the  unapproachable  churchwarden  of  Bish- 

opsgate.  He  knew  not  what  he  did,  when  he  begat 
thee,  like  spring,  gentle  offspring  of  blustering  win- 
ter:— only  unfortunate  in  thy  ending,  which  should 
have  been  mild,  conciliatory,  swan-like. 

Much  remains  to  sing.  Many  fantastic  shapes  rise 
up,  but  they  must  be  mine  in  private: — already  I 
have  fooled  the  reader  to  the  top  of  his  bent;  else 
could  I  omit  that  strange  creature  Woollett,  who 
existed  in  trying  the  question,  and  bought  litigations! 
— and  still  stranger,  inimitable,  solemn  Hepworth, 
from  whose  gravity  Newton  naight  have  deduced 
the  law  of  gravitation.  How  profoundly  would  he 
nib  a  pen — with  what  deliberation  would  he  wet  a 
wafer! 

But  it  is  time  to  close — night's  wheels  are  rat- 
tling fast  over  me — it  is  proper  to  have  done  with 
this  solemn  mockery. 

Reader,  what  if  I  have  been  playing  with  thee  all 
this  while — peradventure  the  very  names,  which  I 
have  summoned  up  before  thee,  are  fantastic — in- 
substantial— like  Henry  Pimpernel,  and  old  John 
Naps  of  Greece: 

Be  satisfied  that  something  answering  to  them 
has  had  a  being.  Their  importance  is  from  the  past. 


12 


OXFORD   IN   THE   VACATION 

CASTING  a  preparatory  glance  at  the  bottom 
of  this  article — as  the  wary  connoisseur  in 
prints,  with  cursory  eye  (which,  while  it  reads, 
seems  as  though  it  read  not),  never  fails  to  consult 
the  quis  sculpsit  in  the  corner,  before  he  pronounces 
some  rare  piece  to  be  a  Vivares,  or  a  Woollet — 
methinks  I  hear  you  exclaim.  Reader,  Who  is  Elia? 

Because  in  my  last  I  tried  to  divert  thee  with 
some  half-forgotten  humours  of  some  old  clerks  de- 
funct, in  an  old  house  of  business,  long  since  gone 
to  decay,  doubtless  you  have  already  set  me  down 
in  your  mind  as  one  of  the  self-same  college — a 
votary  of  the  desk — a  notched  and  cropt  scrivener 
— one  that  sucks  his  sustenance,  as  certain  sick  peo- 
ple are  said  to  do,  through  a  quill. 

Well,  I  do  agnise  something  of  the  sort.  I  con- 
fess that  it  is  my  humour,  my  fancy — in  the  fore- 
part of  the  day,  when  the  mind  of  your  man  of 
letters  requires  some  relaxation  (and  none  better 
than  such  as  at  first  sight  seems  most  abhorrent 
from  his  beloved  studies) — to  while  away  some 
good  hours  of  my  time  in  the  contemplation  of 
indigos,  cottons,  raw  silks,  piece-goods,  flowered  or 
otherwise.  In  the  first  place  .  .  .  and  then  it  sends 
you   home  with  such  increased  appetite  to   your 

books not  to  say,  that  your  outside  sheets, 

and  waste  wrappers  of  foolscap,  do  receive  into 

13 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

them,  most  kindly  and  naturally,  the  impression  of 
sonnets,  epigrams,  essays — so  that  the  very  parings 
of  a  counting-house  are,  in  some  sort,  the  settings 
up  of  an  author.  The  enfranchised  quill,  that  has 
plodded  all  the  morning  among  the  cart-rucks  of 
figures  and  ciphers,  frisks  and  curvets  so  at  its  ease 
over  the  flowery  carpet-ground  of  a  midnight  disser- 
tation.—  It  feels  its  promotion So  that  you  see, 

upon  the  whole,  the  literary  dignity  of  Elia  is  very 
little,  if  at  all,  compromised  in  the  condescension. 

Not  that,  in  my  anxious  detail  of  the  many  com- 
modities incidental  to  the  life  of  a  public  office, 
I  would  be  thought  blind  to  certain  flaws,  which 
a  cunning  carper  might  be  able  to  pick  in  this 
Joseph's  vest.  And  here  I  must  have  leave,  in  the 
fulness  of  my  soul,  to  regret  the  abolition,  and 
doing-away-with  altogether,  of  those  consolatory 
interstices,  and  sprinklings  of  freedom,  through  the 
four  seasons, — the  red-letter  days,  now  become,  to 
all  intents  and  purposes,  dead-letter  days.  There  was 
Paul,  and  Stephen,  and  Barnabas — 

Andrew  and  John,  men  famous  in  old  times 

— we  were  used  to  keep  all  their  days  holy,  as  long 
back  as  when  I  was  at  school  at  Christ's.  I  remember 
their  effigies,  by  the  same  token,  in  the  old  Baskett 
Prayer  Book.  There  hung  Peter  in  his  uneasy 
posture — holy  Bartlemy  in  the  troublesome  act  of 
flaying,  after  the  famous  Marsyas  by  Spagnoletti. 
— I  honoured  them  all,  and  could  almost  have  wept 
14 


OXFORD   IN   THE   VACATION 

the  defalcation  of  Iscariot — so  much  did  we  love  to 
keep  holy  memories  sacred: — only  methought  I  a 
little  grudged  at  the  coalition  of  the  better  Jude 
with  Simon — clubbing  (as  it  were)  their  sanctities 
together,  to  make  up  one  poor  gaudy- day  between 
them — as  an  economy  unworthy  of  the  dispensa- 
tion. 

These  were  bright  visitations  in  a  scholar's  and  a 
clerk's  life — "far  off  their  coming  shone." — I  was 
as  good  as  an  almanac  in  those  days.  I  could  have 
told  you  such  a  saint 's-day  falls  out  next  week,  or 
the  week  after.  Peradventure  the  Epiphany,  by 
some  periodical  infelicity,  would,  once  in  six  years, 
merge  in  a  Sabbath.  Now  am  I  little  better  than 
one  of  the  profane.  Let  me  not  be  thought  to  ar- 
raign the  wisdom  of  my  civil  superiors,  who  have 
judged  the  further  observation  of  these  holy  tides 
to  be  papistical,  superstitious.  Only  in  a  custom  of 
such  long  standing,  methinks,  if  their  Holinesses 
the  Bishops  had,  in  decency,  been  first  sounded — 
but  I  am  wading  out  of  my  depths.  I  am  not  the 
man  to  decide  the  limits  of  civil  and  ecclesiastical 
authority — I  am  plain  Elia — no  Selden,  nor  Arch- 
bishop Usher — though  at  present  in  the  thick  of 
their  books,  here  in  the  heart  of  learning,  under 
the  shadow  of  the  mighty  Bodley. 

I  can  here  play  the  gentleman,  enact  the  student. 
To  such  a  one  as  myself,  who  has  been  defrauded 
in  his  young  years  of  the  sweet  food  of  academic 
institution,  nowhere  is  so  pleasant,  to  while  away  a 

15 


THE   ESSAYS    OF   ELIA 

few  idle  weeks  at,  as  one  or  other  of  the  Universi- 
ties. Their  vacation,  too,  at  this  time  of  the  year, 
falls  in  so  pat  with  ours.  Here  I  can  take  my  walks 
unmolested,  and  fancy  myself  of  what  degree  or 
standing  I  please.  I  seem  admitted  ad  eundem.  I 
fetch  up  past  opportunities.  I  can  rise  at  the  chapel- 
bell,  and  dream  that  it  rings  for  me.  In  moods  of 
humility  I  can  be  a  Sizar,  or  a  Servitor.  When 
the  peacock  vein  rises,  I  strut  a  Gentleman  Com- 
moner. In  graver  moments,  I  proceed  Master  of 
Arts.  Indeed  I  do  not  think  I  am  much  unlike  that 
respectable  character.  I  have  seen  your  dim-eyed 
vergers,  and  bed-makers  in  spectacles,  drop  a  bow 
or  a  curtsy,  as  I  pass,  wisely  mistaking  me  for  some- 
thing of  the  sort.  I  go  about  in  black,  which  favours 
the  notion.  Only  in  Christ  Church  reverend  quad- 
rangle I  can  be  content  to  pass  for  nothing  short  of 
a  Seraphic  Doctor. 

The  walks  at  these  times  are  so  much  one's  own, 
— the  tall  trees  of  Christ's,  the  gi'oves  of  INIagdalen ! 
The  halls  deserted,  and  with  open  doors,  inviting 
one  to  shp  in  unperceived,  and  pay  a  devoir  to  some 
Founder,  or  noble  or  royal  Benefactress  (that  should 
have  been  ours)  whose  portrait  seems  to  smile  upon 
their  over-looked  beadsman,  and  to  adopt  me  for 
their  own.  Then,  to  take  a  peep  in  by  the  way  at 
the  butteries,  and  sculleries,  redolent  of  antique 
hospitaUty :  the  immense  caves  of  kitchens,  kitchen 
fireplaces,  cordial  recesses;  ovens  whose  first  pies 
were  baked  four  centuries  ago;  and  spits  which 
16 


OXFORD   IN   THE   VACATION 

have  cooked  for  Chaucer!  Not  the  meanest  mmis- 
ter  among  the  dishes  but  is  hallowed  to  me  through 
his  imagination,  and  the  Cook  goes  forth  a  Manciple. 

Antiquity !  thou  wondrous  charm,  what  art  thou  ? 
that,  being  nothing,  art  everything!  When  thou 
wert,  thou  wert  not  antiquity — then  thou  wert 
nothing,  but  hadst  a  remoter  antiquity^  as  thou 
calledst  it,  to  look  back  to  with  blind  veneration; 
thou  thyself  being  to  thyself  flat,  jejune,  modern! 
What  mystery  lurks  in  this  retroversion?  or  what 
half  Januses^  are  we,  that  cannot  look  forward  with 
the  same  idolatry  with  which  we  for  ever  revert! 
The  mighty  future  is  as  nothing,  being  everything! 
the  past  is  everything,  being  nothing! 

What  were  thy  dark  ages?  Surely  the  sun  rose 
as  brightly  then  as  now,  and  man  got  him  to  his 
work  in  the  morning?  Why  is  it  we  can  never  hear 
mention  of  them  without  an  accompanying  feeling, 
as  though  a  palpable  obscure  had  dimmed  the  face 
of  things,  and  that  our  ancestors  wandered  to  and 
fro  groping! 

Above  all  thy  rarities,  old  Oxenford,  what  do 
most  arride  and  solace  me,  are  thy  repositories  of 
mouldering  learning,  thy  shelves 

What  a  place  to  be  in  is  an  old  library!  It  seems 
as  though  all  the  souls  of  all  the  writers,  that  have 
bequeathed  their  labours  to  these  Bodleians,  were  re- 
posing here,  as  in  some  dormitory,  or  middle  state. 
I  do  not  want  to  handle,  to  profane  the  leaves,  their 

*  Januses  of  one  face. — Sir  Thomas  Browne. 

IT 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

winding-sheets.  I  could  as  soon  dislodge  a  shade.  I 
seem  to  inhale  learning,  walking  amid  their  foliage; 
and  the  odour  of  their  old  moth-scented  coverings 
is  fragrant  as  the  first  bloom  of  those  sciential  ap- 
ples which  grew  amid  the  happy  orchard. 

Still  less  have  I  curiosity  to  disturb  the  elder  re- 
pose of  MSS.  Those  varice  lectiones,  so  tempting  to 
the  more  erudite  palates,  do  but  disturb  and  unset- 
tle my  faith.  I  am  no  Herculanean  raker.  The  credit 
of  the  three  witnesses  might  have  slept  unimpeached 
for  me.  I  leave  these  curiosities  to  Porson,  and  to 
G.  D. — whom,  by  the  way,  I  found  busy  as  a  moth 
over  some  rotten  archive,  rummaged  out  of  some 
seldom-explored  press,  in  a  nook  at  Oriel.  With 
long  poring,  he  is  grown  almost  into  a  book.  He 
stood  as  passive  as  one  by  the  side  of  the  old  shelves. 
I  longed  to  new-coat  him  in  russia,  and  assign  him 
his  place.  He  might  have  mustered  for  a  tall  Scapula. 

D.  is  assiduous  in  his  visits  to  these  seats  of  learn- 
ing. No  inconsiderable  portion  of  his  moderate  for- 
tune, I  apprehend,  is  consumed  in  journeys  between 
them  and  Cliiford's  Inn — where,  hke  a  dove  on  the 
asp's  nest,  he  has  long  taken  up  his  unconscious 
abode,  amid  an  incongruous  assembly  of  attorneys, 
attorneys'  clerks,  apparitors,  promoters,  vermin  of 
the  law,  among  whom  he  sits,  "in  calm  and  sinless 
peace."  The  fangs  of  the  law  pierce  him  not — the 
winds  of  htigation  blow  over  his  humble  chambers 
— the  hard  sheriff's  officer  moves  his  hat  as  he 
passes — legal  nor  illegal  discourtesy  touches  him — 
18 


OXFORD   IN   THE   VACATION 

none  thinks  of  offering  violence  or  injustice  to  him 
—  you  would  as  soon  "strike  an  abstract  idea." 

D.  has  been  engaged,  he  tells  me,  through  a  course 
of  laborious  years,  in  an  investigation  into  all  curious 
matter  connected  with  the  two  Universities ;  and  has 
lately  lit  upon  a  MS.  collection  of  charters,  relative 
to  C ,  by  which  he  hopes  to  settle  some  dis- 
puted points — particularly  that  long  controversy 
between  them  as  to  priority  of  foundation.  The  ar- 
dour with  which  he  engages  in  these  liberal  pursuits, 
I  am  afraid,  has  not  met  with  all  the  encouragement 

it  deserved,  either  here  or  at  C .  Your  caputs, 

and  heads  of  colleges,  care  less  than  anybody  else 
about  these  questions. — Contented  to  suck  the 
milky  fountains  of  their  Alma  Maters,  without  in- 
quiring into  the  venerable  gentlewomen's  years, 
they  rather  hold  such  curiosities  to  be  impertinent 
— unreverend.  They  have  their  good  glebe  lands  in 
manu,  and  care  not  much  to  rake  into  the  title- 
deeds.  I  gather  at  least  so  much  from  other  sources, 
for  D.  is  not  a  man  to  complain. 

D.  started  like  an  unbroken  heifer,  when  I  inter- 
rupted him.  A  priori  it  was  not  very  probable  that 
we  should  have  met  in  Oriel.  But  D.  would  have 
done  the  same,  had  I  accosted  him  on  the  sudden  in 
his  own  walks  in  Clifford's  Inn,  or  in  the  Temple. 
In  addition  to  a  provoking  short-sightedness  (the 
effect  of  late  studies  and  watchings  at  the  midnight 
oil)  D.  is  the  most  absent  of  men.  He  made  a  call 
the  other  morning  at  our  friend  M.'s  in  Bedford 

19 


THE  ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

Square;  and,  finding  nobody  at  home,  was  ushered 
into  the  hall,  where,  asking  for  pen  and  ink,  with 
great  exactitude  of  purpose  he  enters  me  his  name 
in  the  book — which  ordinarily  lies  about  in  such 
places,  to  record  the  failures  of  the  untimely  or  un- 
fortunate visitor — and  takes  his  leave  with  many 
ceremonies,  and  professions  of  regret.  Some  two  or 
three  hours  after,  his  walking  destinies  returned  him 
into  the  same  neighbourhood  again,  and  again  the 
quiet  image  of  the  fireside  circle  at  M.^s — Mrs.  M. 
presiding  at  it  like  a  Queen  Lar,  with  pretty  A.  S. 
at  her  side — striking  irresistibly  on  his  fancy,  he 
makes  another  call  (forgetting  that  they  were  "cer- 
tainly not  to  return  from  the  country  before  that 
day  week"),  and  disappointed  a  second  time,  in- 
quires for  pen  and  paper  as  before:  again  the  book 
is  brought,  and  in  the  line  just  above  that  in  which 
he  is  about  to  print  his  second  name  (his  re-script) 
—  his  first  name  (scarce  dry)  looks  out  upon  him 
like  another  Sosia,  or  as  if  a  man  should  suddenly 
encounter  his  own  duplicate! — The  effect  may  be 
conceived.  D.  made  many  a  good  resolution  against 
any  such  lapses  in  future.  I  hope  he  will  not  keep 
them  too  rigorously. 

For  with  G.  D. — to  be  absent  from  the  body,  is 
sometimes  (not  to  speak  it  profanely)  to  be  present 
with  the  Lord.  At  the  very  time  when,  personally 
encountering  thee,  he  passes  on  with  no  recogni- 
tion  or,  being  stopped,  starts  like  a  thing  sur- 
prised— at  that  moment,  Reader,  he  is  on  Mount 
20 


OXFORD   IN  THE   VACATION 

Tabor — or  Parnassus — or  co-sphered  with  Plato — 
or,  with  Harrington,  framing  "immortal  common- 
wealths"— devising  some  plan  of  amelioration  to 
thy  country,  or  thy  species peradventure  medi- 
tating some  individual  kindness  or  courtesy,  to  be 
done  to  thee  thyself,  the  returning  consciousness  of 
which  made  him  to  start  so  guiltily  at  thy  obtruded 
personal  presence. 

[D.  commenced  life,  after  a  course  of  hard  study 
in  the  house  of  "pure  Emanuel,"  as  usher  to  a  knav- 
ish fanatic  schoolmaster  at  *  *  *,  at  a  salary  of  eight 
pounds  per  annum,  with  board  and  lodging.  Of  this 
poor  stipend,  he  never  received  above  half  in  all 
the  laborious  years  he  served  this  man.  He  tells  a 
pleasant  anecdote,  that  when  poverty,  staring  out 
at  his  ragged  knees,  has  sometimes  compelled  him, 
against  the  modesty  of  his  nature,  to  hint  at  ar- 
rears. Dr.  *  *  *  would  take  no  immediate  notice, 
but  after  supper,  when  the  school  was  called  to- 
gether to  evensong,  he  would  never  fail  to  intro- 
duce some  instructive  homily  against  riches,  and 
the  corruption  of  the  heart  occasioned  through  the 
desire  of  them — ending  with  "Lord,  keep  Thy  ser- 
vants, above  all  things,  from  the  heinous  sin  of 
avarice.  Having  food  and  raiment,  let  us  there- 
withal be  content.  Give  me  Agur's  wish" — and  the 
like — which,  to  the  little  auditory,  sounded  like  a 
doctrine  full  of  Christian  prudence  and  simphcity, 
but  to  poor  D.  was  a  receipt  in  full  for  that  quar- 
ter's demand  at  least. 

21 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

And  D.  has  been  under- working  for  himself  ever 
since; — drudging  at  low  rates  for  unappreeiating 
booksellers, — wasting  his  fine  erudition  in  silent 
corrections  of  the  classics,  and  in  those  unostenta- 
tious but  solid  services  to  learning  which  commonly 
fall  to  the  lot  of  laborious  scholars,  who  have  not 
the  heart  to  sell  themselves  to  the  best  advantage. 
He  has  published  poems,  which  do  not  sell,  because 
their  character  is  unobtrusive,  like  his  own,  and  be- 
cause he  has  been  too  much  absorbed  in  ancient  lit- 
erature to  know  what  the  popular  mark  in  poetry 
is,  even  if  he  could  have  hit  it.  And,  therefore,  his 
verses  are  properly,  what  he  terms  them,  crotchets; 
voluntaries;  odes  to  liberty  and  spring;  effusions; 
little  tributes  and  offerings,  left  behind  him  upon 
tables  and  window-seats  at  parting  from  friends' 
houses;  and  from  all  the  inns  of  hospitality,  where 
he  has  been  courteously  (or  but  tolerably)  received 
in  his  pilgrimage.  If  his  muse  of  kindness  halt  a  little 
behind  the  strong  lines  in  fashion  in  this  excitement- 
loving  age,  his  prose  is  the  best  of  the  sort  in  the 
world,  and  exhibits  a  faithful  transcript  of  his  own 
healthy,  natural  mind,  and  cheerful,  innocent  tone 
of  conversation.] 

D.  is  delightful  anywhere,  but  he  is  at  the  best  in 
such  places  as  these.  He  cares  not  much  for  Bath. 
He  is  out  of  his  element  at  Buxton,  at  Scarborough, 
or  Harrowgate.  The  Cam  and  the  Isis  are  to  him 
"better  than  all  the  waters  of  Damascus."  On  the 
Muses'  hill  he  is  happy,  and  good,  as  one  of  the 
22 


OXFORD   IN   THE   VACATION 

Shepherds  on  the  Delectable  IMountains;  and  when 
he  goes  about  with  you  to  show  you  the  halls  and 
colleges,  you  think  you  have  with  you  the  Inter- 
preter at  the  House  Beautiful. 


CHRIST'S   HOSPITAL 

FIVE   AND    THIRTY   YEARS   AGO 

IN  Mr.  Lamb's  "Works,"  published  a  year  or  two 
since,  I  find  a  magnificent  eulogy  on  my  old 
school,^  such  as  it  was,  or  now  appears  to  him  to 
have  been,  between  the  years  1782  and  1789.  It 
happens,  very  oddly,  that  my  own  standing  at 
Christ's  was  nearly  corresponding  with  his;  and, 
with  all  gratitude  to  him  for  his  enthusiasm  for  the 
cloisters,  I  think  he  has  contrived  to  bring  together 
whatever  can  be  said  in  praise  of  them,  dropping 
all  the  other  side  of  the  argument  most  ingeniously. 
I  remember  L.  at  school;  and  can  well  recollect 
that  he  had  some  peculiar  advantages,  which  I  and 
others  of  his  schoolfellows  had  not.  His  friends 
hved  in  town,  and  were  near  at  hand;  and  he  had 
the  privilege  of  going  to  see  them,  almost  as  often 
as  he  wished,  through  some  invidious  distinction, 
which  was  denied  to  us.  The  present  worthy  sub- 
treasurer  to  the  Inner  Temple  can  explain  how  that 
happened.  He  had  his  tea  and  hot  rolls  in  a  morn- 
ing, while  we  were  battening  upon  our  quarter  of  a 
penny  loaf — our  crw^— moistened  with  attenuated 
small  beer,  in  wooden  piggins,  smacking  of  the 
pitched  leathern  jack  it  was  poured  from.  Our 
Monday's  milk  porritch,  blue  and  tasteless,  and 
the  pease  soup  of  Saturday,  coarse  and  choking, 

^  Recollections  of  Christ's  Hospital. 
24 


CHRIST'S   HOSPITAL 

were  enriched  for  him  with  a  sHce  of  "extraordi- 
nary bread  and  butter,"  from  the  hot-loaf  of  the 
Temple.  The  Wednesday's  mess  of  millet,  some- 
what less  repugnant  (we  had  three  banyan  to  four 
meat  days  in  the  week) — was  endeared  to  his  pal- 
ate with  a  lump  of  double-refined,  and  a  smack  of 
ginger  (to  make  it  go  down  the  more  ghbly)  or  the 
fragrant  cinnamon.  In  Heu  of  our  half-pickled  Sun- 
days, or  quite  fresh  boiled  beef  on  Thursdays  (strong 
as  caro  equina)^  with  detestable  marigolds  floating 
in  the  pail  to  poison  the  broth — our  scanty  mutton 
scrags  on  Fridays — and  rather  more  savoury,  but 
grudging,  portions  of  the  same  flesh,  rotten -roasted 
or  rare,  on  the  Tuesdays  (the  only  dish  which  ex- 
cited our  appetites,  and  disappointed  our  stomachs, 
in  almost  equal  proportion) — he  had  his  hot  plate 
of  roast  veal,  or  the  more  tempting  griskin  (exotics 
unknown  to  our  palates),  cooked  in  the  paternal 
kitchen  (a  great  thing),  and  brought  him  daily  by 
his  maid  or  aunt!  I  remember  the  good  old  rela- 
tive (in  whom  love  forbade  pride)  squatting  down 
upon  some  odd  stone  in  a  by-nook  of  the  cloisters, 
disclosing  the  viands  (of  higher  regale  than  those 
Gates  which  the  ravens  ministered  to  the  Tishbite); 
and  the  contending  passions  of  L.  at  the  unfolding. 
There  was  love  for  the  bringer ;  shame  for  the  thing 
brought,  and  the  manner  of  its  bringing;  sympathy 
for  those  who  were  too  many  to  share  in  it;  and,  at 
top  of  all,  hunger  (eldest,  strongest  of  the  passions!) 
predominant,  breaking  down  the  stony  fences  of 

25 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

shame,   and   awkwardness,   and  a  troubling   over- 
consciousness. 

1  was  a  poor  friendless  boy.  My  parents,  and  those 
who  should  care  for  me,  were  far  away.  Those  few 
acquaintances  of  theirs,  which  they  could  reckon 
upon  as  being  kind  to  me  in  the  great  city,  after  a 
little  forced  notice,  which  they  had  the  grace  to 
take  of  me  on  my  first  arrival  in  town,  soon  grew 
tired  of  my  holiday  visits.  They  seemed  to  them 
to  recur  too  often,  though  I  thought  them  few 
enough;  and,  one  after  another,  they  all  failed  me, 
and  I  felt  myself  alone  among  six  hundred  play- 
mates. 

O  the  cruelty  of  separating  a  poor  lad  from  his 
early  homestead!  The  yearnings  which  I  used  to 
have  towards  it  in  those  unfledged  years!  How,  in 
my  dreams,  would  my  native  town  (far  in  the  west) 
come  back,  with  its  church,  and  trees,  and  faces! 
How  I  would  wake  weeping,  and  in  the  anguish  of 
my  heart  exclaim  upon  sweet  Calne  in  Wiltshire ! 

To  this  late  hour  of  my  life,  I  trace  impressions 
left  by  the  recollection  of  those  friendless  holidays. 
The  long  warm  days  of  summer  never  return  but 
they  bring  with  them  a  gloom  from  the  haunting 
memory  of  those  whole-day  leaves,  when,  by  some 
strange  arrangement,  we  were  turned  out,  for  the 
live-long  day,  upon  our  own  hands,  whether  we  had 
friends  to  go  to,  or  none.  I  remember  those  bath- 
ing-excursions to  the  New  River,  which  L.  recalls 
with  such  relish,  better,  I  think,  than  he  can — for 
26 


CHRIST'S    HOSPITAL 

he  was  a  home-seeking  lad,  and  did  not  much  care 
for  such  water-pastimes: — How  merrily  we  would 
sally  forth  into  the  fields ;  and  strip  under  the  first 
warmth  of  the  sun ;  and  wanton  like  young  dace  in 
the  streams;  getting  us  appetites  for  noon,  which 
those  of  us  that  were  penniless  (our  scanty  morning 
crust  long  since  exhausted)  had  not  the  means  of 
allaying — while  the  cattle,  and  the  birds,  and  the 
fishes,  were  at  feed  about  us,  and  we  had  nothing 
to  satisfy  our  cravings — the  very  beauty  of  the  day, 
and  the  exercise  of  the  pastime,  and  the  sense  of 
hberty,  setting  a  keener  edge  upon  them! — How 
faint  and  languid,  finally,  we  would  return,  towards 
nightfall,  to  our  desired  morsel,  half-rejoicing,  half- 
reluctant,  that  the  hours  of  our  uneasy  liberty  had 
expired! 

It  was  worse  in  the  days  of  winter,  to  go  prowl- 
ing about  the  streets  objectless — shivering  at  cold 
windows  of  print  shops,  to  extract  a  little  amuse- 
ment; or  haply,  as  a  last  resort,  in  the  hopes  of 
a  httle  novelty,  to  pay  a  fifty-times  repeated  visit 
(where  our  individual  faces  should  be  as  well  known 
to  the  warden  as  those  of  his  own  charges)  to  the 
Lions  in  the  Tower — to  whose  levee,  by  courtesy 
immemorial,  we  had  a  prescriptive  title  to  admission. 

L.'s  governor  (so  we  called  the  patron  who  pre- 
sented us  to  the  foundation)  lived  in  a  manner  un- 
der his  paternal  roof.  Any  complaint  which  he  had 
to  make  was  sure  of  being  attended  to.  This  was 
understood  at  Christ's,  and  was  an  effectual  screen 

27 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

to  him  against  the  severity  of  masters,  or  worse 
tyranny  of  the  monitors.  The  oppressions  of  these 
young  brutes  are  heart-sickening  to  call  to  recollec- 
tion. I  have  been  called  out  of  my  bed,  and  waked 
for  the  purpose,  in  the  coldest  winter  nights — and 
this  not  once,  but  night  after  night — in  my  shirt, 
to  receive  the  discipline  of  a  leathern  thong,  with 
eleven  other  sufferers,  because  it  pleased  my  callow 
overseer,  when  there  has  been  any  talking  heard 
after  we  were  gone  to  bed,  to  make  the  six  last 
beds  in  the  dormitory,  where  the  youngest  children 
of  us  slept,  answerable  for  an  offence  they  neither 
dared  to  commit,  nor  had  the  power  to  hinder. — 
The  same  execrable  tyranny  drove  the  younger  part 
of  us  from  the  fires,  when  our  feet  were  perishing 
with  snow;  and,  under  the  cruellest  penalties,  for- 
bade the  indulgence  of  a  drink  of  water,  when  we 
lay  in  sleepless  summer  nights,  fevered  with  the 
season  and  the  day's  sports. 

There  was  one  H ,  who,  I  learned  in  after 

days,  was  seen  expiating  some  maturer  offence  in 
the  hulks.  (Do  I  flatter  myself  in  fancying  that  this 
might  be  the  planter  of  that  name,  who  suffered — 
at  Nevis,  I  think,  or  St.  Kitts,— some  few  years- 
since?  My  friend  Tobin  was  the  benevolent  instru- 
ment of  bringing  him  to  the  gallows.)  This  petty 
Nero  actually  branded  a  boy,  who  had  offended  him, 
with  a  red-hot  iron;  and  nearly  starved  forty  of  us, 
with  exacting  contributions,  to  the  one  half  of  our 
bread,  to  pamper  a  young  ass,  which,  incredible  as 
28 


CHRIST'S   HOSPITAL 

it  may  seem,  with  the  connivance  of  the  nurse's 
daughter  (a  young  flame  of  his)  he  had  contrived 
to  smuggle  in,  and  keep  upon  the  leads  of  the  ward, 
as  they  called  our  dormitories.  This  game  went  on 
for  better  than  a  week,  till  the  foolish  beast,  not 
able  to  fare  well  but  he  must  cry  roast  meat — hap- 
pier than  Caligula's  minion,  could  he  have  kept  his 
own  counsel — but,  foolisher,  alas!  than  any  of  his 
species  in  the  fables — waxing  fat,  and  kicking,  in 
the  fulness  of  bread,  one  unlucky  minute  would 
needs  proclaim  his  good  fortune  to  the  world  be- 
low; and,  laying  out  his  simple  throat,  blew  such  a 
ram's  horn  blast,  as  (toppling  down  the  walls  of  his 
own  Jericho)  set  concealment  any  longer  at  defiance. 
The  client  was  dismissed,  with  certain  attentions,  to 
Smithfield ;  but  I  never  understood  that  the  patron 
underwent  any  censure  on  the  occasion.  This  was 
in  the  stewardship  of  L.'s  admired  Perry. 

Under  the  same Jacile  administration,  can  L.  have 
forgotten  the  cool  impunity  with  which  the  nurses 
used  to  carry  away  openly,  in  open  platters,  for  their 
own  tables,  one  out  of  two  of  every  hot  joint,  which 
the  careful  matron  had  been  seeing  scrupulously 
weighed  out  for  our  dinners?  These  things  were 
daily  practised  in  that  magnificent  apartment,  which 
L.  (grown  connoisseur  since,  we  presume)  praises 
so  highly  for  the  grand  paintings  "by  Verrio  and 
others,"  with  which  it  is  "hung  round  and  adorned." 
But  the  sight  of  sleek  well-fed  blue-coat  boys  in 
pictures  was,  at  that  time,  I  believe,  little  consola- 

29 


THE   ESSAYS    OF   ELIA 

tory  to  him,  or  us,  the  hving  ones,  who  saw  the  bet- 
ter part  of  our  provisions  carried  away  before  our 
faces  by  harpies;  and  ourselves  reduced  (with  the 
Trojan  in  the  hall  of  Dido) 

To  feed  our  mind  with  idle  portraiture. 

L.  has  recorded  the  repugnance  of  the  school  to 
gags,  or  the  fat  of  fresh  beef  boiled ;  and  sets  it  down 
to  some  superstition.  But  these  unctuous  morsels 
are  never  grateful  to  young  palates  (children  are 
universally  fat-haters),  and  in  strong,  coarse,  boiled 
meats,  unsalted,  are  detestable.  A  gag-eater  in  our 
time  was  equivalent  to  a  goule,  and  held  in  equal 
detestation. suffered  under  the  imputation: 

.  .  .  .  'T  was  said 
He  ate  strange  flesh. 

He  was  observed,  after  dinner,  carefully  to  gather 
up  the  remnants  left  at  his  table  (not  many,  nor 
very  choice  fragments,  you  may  credit  me) — and, 
in  an  especial  manner,  these  disreputable  morsels, 
which  he  would  convey  away,  and  secretly  stow  in 
the  settle  that  stood  at  his  bed-side.  None  saw  when 
he  ate  them.  It  was  rumoured  that  he  privately  de- 
voured them  in  the  night.  He  was  watched,  but  no 
traces  of  such  midnight  practices  were  discoverable. 
Some  reported,  that,  on  leave-days,  he  had  been 
seen  to  carry  out  of  the  bounds  a  large  blue  check 
handkerchief,  full  of  something.  This  then  must  be 
the  accursed  thing.  Conjecture  next  was  at  work  to 
30 


CHRISTS    HOSPITAL 

imagine  how  he  could  dispose  of  it.  Some  said  he 
sold  it  to  the  beggars.  This  belief  generally  prevailed. 
He  went  about  moping.  None  spake  to  him.  No  one 
would  play  with  him.  He  was  excommunicated;  put 
out  of  the  pale  of  the  school.  He  was  too  powerful 
a  boy  to  be  beaten,  but  he  underwent  every  mode 
of  that  negative  punishment,  which  is  more  grievous 
than  many  stripes.  Still  he  persevered.  At  length  he 
was  observed  by  two  of  his  schoolfellows,  who  were 
determined  to  get  at  the  secret,  and  had  traced  him 
one  leave-day  for  that  purpose,  to  enter  a  large  worn- 
out  building,  such  as  there  exist  specimens  of  in 
Chancery  Lane,  which  are  let  out  to  various  scales 
of  pauperism,  with  open  door,  and  a  common  stair- 
case. After  him  they  silently  slunk  in,  and  followed 
by  stealth  up  four  flights,  and  saw  him  tap  at  a 
poor  wicket,  which  was  opened  by  an  aged  woman, 
meanly  clad.  Suspicion  was  now  ripened  into  cer- 
tainty. The  informers  had  secured  their  victim.  They 
had  him  in  their  toils.  Accusation  was  formally  pre- 
ferred, and  retribution  most  signal  was  looked  for. 
Mr.  Hathaway,  the  then  steward  (for  this  happened 
a  little  after  my  time),  with  that  patient  sagacity 
which  tempered  all  his  conduct,  determined  to  in- 
vestigate the  matter,  before  he  proceeded  to  sen- 
tence. The  result  was,  that  the  supposed  mendi- 
cants, the  receivers  or  purchasers  of  the  mysterious 

scraps,  turned  out  to  be  the  parents  of ,  an 

honest  couple  come  to  decay, — whom  this  season- 
able supply  had,  in  all  probability,  saved  from  men- 

31 


THE   ESSAYS    OF   ELIA 

dicancy :  and  that  this  young  stork,  at  the  expense 
of  his  own  good  name,  had  all  this  while  been  only 
feeding  the  old  birds! — The  governors  on  this  occa- 
sion, much  to  their  honour,  voted  a  present  relief  to 

the  family  of ,  and  presented  him  with  a  silver 

medal.  The  lesson  which  the  steward  read  upon 
RASH  JUDGMENT,  on  tlic  occasiou  of  publicly  deliv- 
ering the  medal  to  ,  I  beheve,  would  not  be 

lost  upon  his  auditory.  — I  had  left  school  then,  but 

I  well  remember  .  He  was  a  tall,  shambhng 

youth,  with  a  cast  in  his  eye,  not  at  all  calculated 
to  conciliate  hostile  prejudices.  I  have  since  seen 
him  carrying  a  baker's  basket.  I  think  I  heard  he 
did  not  do  quite  so  well  by  himself  as  he  had  done 
by  the  old  folks. 

I  was  a  hypochondriac  lad ;  and  the  sight  of  a  boy 
in  fetters,  upon  the  day  of  my  first  putting  on  the 
blue  clothes,  was  not  exactly  fitted  to  assuage  the 
natural  terrors  of  initiation.  I  was  of  tender  years, 
barely  turned  of  seven ;  and  had  only  read  of  such 
things  in  books,  or  seen  them  but  in  dreams.  I  was 
told  he  had  run  away.  This  was  the  punishment  for 
the  first  offence. — As  a  novice  I  was  soon  after 
taken  to  see  the  dungeons.  These  were  little,  square, 
Bedlam  cells,  where  a  boy  could  just  lie  at  his  length 
upon  straw  and  a  blanket — a  mattress,  I  think,  was 
afterwards  substituted — with  a  peep  of  light,  let  in 
askance,  from  a  prison-orifice  at  top,  barely  enough 
to  read  by.  Here  the  poor  boy  was  locked  in  by  him- 
self all  day,  without  sight  of  any  but  the  porter  who 


CHRIST'S   HOSPITAL 

brought  him  his  bread  and  water — who  might  not 
speak  to  him,; — or  of  the  beadle,  who  came  twice  a 
week  to  caU  him  out  to  receive  his  periodical  chas- 
tisement, which  was  almost  welcome,  because  it 
separated  him  for  a  brief  interval  from  solitude: — 
and  here  he  was  shut  up  by  himself  of  nights,  out  of 
the  reach  of  any  sound,  to  suffer  whatever  horrors 
the  weak  nerves,  and  superstition  incident  to  his 
time  of  life,  might  subject  him  to.^  This  was  the 
penalty  for  the  second  offence.  Wouldst  thou  like, 
Reader,  to  see  what  became  of  him  in  the  next 
degree  ? 

The  culprit,  who  had  been  a  third  time  an  of- 
fender, and  whose  expulsion  was  at  this  time  deemed 
irreversible,  was  brought  forth,  as  at  some  solemn 
auto  dafe,  arrayed  in  uncouth  and  most  appalling 
attire,  all  trace  of  his  late  '*watchet- weeds"  carefully 
effaced,  he  was  exposed  in  a  jacket,  resembling  those 
which  London  lamplighters  formerly  delighted  in, 
with  a  cap  of  the  same.  The  effect  of  this  divesti- 
ture was  such  as  the  ingenious  devisers  of  it  could 
have  anticipated.  With  his  pale  and  frightened  fea- 
tures, it  was  as  if  some  of  those  disfigurements  in 
Dante  had  seized  upon  him.  In  this  disguisement 
he  was  brought  into  the  hall  {L,'s favourite  state- 

^  One  or  two  instances  of  lunacy,  or  attempted  suicide,  accord- 
ingly, at  length  convinced  the  governors  of  the  impolicy  of  this 
part  of  the  sentence,  and  the  midnight  torture  to  the  spirits  was 
dispensed  with. — This  fancy  of  dungeons  for  children  was  a 
sprout  of  Howard's  brain ;  for  which  (saving  the  reverence  due 
to  Holy  Paul)  methinks  I  could  willingly  spit  upon  his  statue. 

33 


THE   ESSAYS    OF   ELIA 

room),  where  awaited  him  the  whole  number  of  his 
schoolfellows,  whose  joint  lessons  and  sports  he  was 
thenceforth  to  share  no  more;  the  awful  presence  of 
the  steward,  to  be  seen  for  the  last  time;  of  the  ex- 
ecutioner beadle,  clad  in  his  state  robe  for  the  occa- 
sion ;  and  of  two  faces  more,  of  direr  import,  because 
never  but  in  these  extremities  visible.  These  were 
governors;  two  of  whom,  by  choice,  or  charter,  were 
always  accustomed  to  officiate  at  these  Ultima  Sup- 
plicia;  not  to  mitigate  (so  at  least  we  understood  it), 
but  to  enforce  the  uttermost  stripe.  Old  Bamber 
Gascoigne,  and  Peter  Aubert,  I  remember,  were 
colleagues  on  one  occasion,  when  the  beadle  turning 
rather  pale,  a  glass  of  brandy  was  ordered  to  pre- 
pare him  for  the  mysteries.  The  scourging  was,  after 
the  old  Roman  fashion,  long  and  stately.  The  Hctor 
accompanied  the  criminal  quite  round  the  hall.  We 
were  generally  too  faint  with  attending  to  the  pre- 
vious disgusting  circumstances  to  make  accurate 
report  with  our  eyes  of  the  degree  of  corporal  suf- 
fering inflicted.  Report,  of  course,  gave  out  the  back 
knotty  and  livid.  After  scourging,  he  was  made  over, 
in  his  San  Benito,  to  his  friends,  if  he  had  any  (but 
commonly  such  poor  runagates  were  friendless),  or 
to  his  parish  officer,  who,  to  enhance  the  effect  of 
the  scene,  had  his  station  allotted  to  him  on  the 
outside  of  the  hall  gate. 

These  solemn  pageantries  were  not  played  off  so 
often  as  to  spoil  the  general  mirth  of  the  commu- 
nity. We  had  plenty  of  exercise  and  recreation  after 
34 


CHRIST'S   HOSPITAL 

school  hours;  and,  for  myself,  I  must  confess,  that 
I  was  never  happier  than  in  them.  The  Upper  and 
the  Lower  Grammar  Schools  were  held  in  the  same 
room;  and  an  imaginary  line  only  divided  their 
bounds.  Their  character  was  as  different  as  that  of 
the  inhabitants  on  the  two  sides  of  the  Pyrenees. 
The  Rev.  James  Boyer  was  the  Upper  Master, 
but  the  Rev.  Matthew  Field  presided  over  that 
portion  of  the  apartment,  of  which  I  had  the  good 
fortune  to  be  a  member.  We  lived  a  life  as  careless 
as  birds.  We  talked  and  did  just  what  we  pleased, 
and  nobody  molested  us.  We  carried  an  accidence, 
or  a  grammar,  for  form ;  but,  for  any  trouble  it  gave 
us,  we  might  take  two  years  in  getting  through  the 
verbs  deponent,  and  another  two  in  forgetting  all 
that  we  had  learned  about  them.  There  was  now 
and  then  the  formahty  of  saying  a  lesson,  but  if  you 
had  not  learned  it,  a  brush  across  the  shoulders  (just 
enough  to  disturb  a  fly)  was  the  sole  remonstrance. 
Field  never  used  the  rod ;  and  in  truth  he  wielded 
the  cane  with  no  great  good  will — holding  it  "hke 
a  dancer."  It  looked  in  his  hands  rather  like  an  em- 
blem than  an  instrument  of  authority ;  and  an  em- 
blem, too,  he  was  ashamed  of.  He  was  a  good  easy 
man,  that  did  not  care  to  ruffle  his  own  peace,  nor 
perhaps  set  any  great  consideration  upon  the  value 
of  juvenile  time.  He  came  among  us,  now  and  then, 
but  often  staid  away  whole  days  from  us ;  and  when 
he  came,  it  made  no  difference  to  us — he  had  his 
private  room  to  retire  to,  the  short  time  he  staid,  to 

S5 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

be  out  of  the  sound  of  our  noise.  Our  mirth  and 
uproar  went  on.  We  had  classics  of  our  own,  with- 
out being  beholden  to  "insolent  Greece  or  haughty 
Rome,"  that  passed  current  among  us — Peter  Wil- 
kins — The  Adventures  of  the  Hon.  Captain  Robert 
Boyle — the  Fortunate  Blue-coatBoy — and  the  like. 
Or  we  cultivated  a  turn  for  mechanic  and  scientific 
operations ;  making  Httle  sun-dials  of  paper ;  or  weav- 
ing those  ingenious  parentheses,  called  cat-cradles; 
or  making  dry  peas  to  dance  upon  the  end  of  a  tin 
pipe;  or  studying  the  art  military  over  that  laudable 
game  "French  and  English,"  and  a  hundred  other 
such  devices  to  pass  away  the  time — mixing  the 
useful  with  the  agreeable — as  would  have  made  the 
souls  of  Rousseau  and  John  Locke  chuckle  to  have 
seen  us. 

Matthew  Field  belonged  to  that  class  of  modest 
divines  who  affect  to  mix  in  equal  proportion  the 
gentleman,  the  scholar,  and  the  Christian;  but,  I 
know  not  how,  the  first  ingredient  is  generally  found 
to  be  the  predominating  dose  in  the  composition. 
He  was  engaged  in  gay  parties,  or  with  his  courtly 
bow  at  some  episcopal  levee,  when  he  should  have 
been  attending  upon  us.  He  had  for  many  years 
the  classical  charge  of  a  hundred  children,  during 
the  four  or  five  first  years  of  their  education ;  and 
his  very  highest  form  seldom  proceeded  further  than 
two  or  three  of  the  introductory  fables  of  Pheedrus. 
How  things  were  suffered  to  go  on  thus,  I  cannot 
guess.  Boyer,  who  was  the  proper  person  to  have 
36 


CHRIST'S   HOSPITAL 

remedied  these  abuses,  always  affected,  perhaps  felt, 
a  delicacy  in  interfering  in  a  province  not  strictly  his 
own.  I  have  not  been  without  my  suspicions,  that 
he  was  not  altogether  displeased  at  the  contrast  we 
presented  to  his  end  of  the  school.  We  were  a  sort  of 
Helots  to  his  young  Spartans.  He  would  sometimes, 
with  ironic  deference,  send  to  borrow  a  rod  of  the 
Under  Master,  and  then,  with  Sardonic  grin,  observe 
to  one  of  his  upper  boys,  "how  neat  and  fresh  the 
twigs  looked."  While  his  pale  students  were  batter- 
ing their  brains  over  Xenophon  and  Plato,  with  a 
silence  as  deep  as  that  enjoined  by  the  Samite,  we 
were  enjoying  ourselves  at  our  ease  in  our  little 
Goshen.  We  saw  a  little  into  the  secrets  of  his  dis- 
cipline, and  the  prospect  did  but  the  more  reconcile 
us  to  our  lot.  His  thunders  rolled  innocuous  for  us; 
his  storms  came  near,  but  never  touched  us;  con- 
trary to  Gideon's  miracle,  while  all  around  were 
drenched,  our  fleece  was  dry.^  His  boys  turned  out 
the  better  scholars;  we,  I  suspect,  have  the  advan- 
tage in  temper.  His  pupils  cannot  speak  of  him 
without  something  of  terror  allaying  their  grati- 
tude; the  remembrance  of  Field  comes  back  with 
all  the  soothing  images  of  indolence,  and  summer 
slumbers,  and  work  like  play,  and  innocent  idleness, 
and  Elysian  exemptions,  and  life  itself  a  "playing 
holiday." 

Though  sufficiently  removed  from  the  jurisdiction 
of  Boyer,  we  were  near  enough  (as  I  have  said)  to 

^  Cowley. 

37 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

understand  a  little  of  his  system.  We  occasionally 
heard  sounds  of  the  Ululantes,  and  caught  glances 
of  Tartarus.  B.  was  a  rabid  pedant.  His  English 
style  was  crampt  to  barbarism.  His  Easter  anthems 
(for  his  duty  obliged  him  to  those  periodical  flights) 
were  grating  as  scrannel  pipes.^  —  He  would  laugh 
— ay,  and  heartily — but  then  it  must  be  at  Flac- 

cus's  quibble  about  Rex or  at  the  tristis  severi- 

tas  in  vultu,  or  inspicere  in  patinas^  of  Terence — thin 
jests,  which  at  their  first  broaching  could  hardly  have 
had  vis  enough  to  move  a  Roman  muscle. — He  had 
two  wigs,  both  pedantic,  but  of  different  omen.  The 
one  serene,  smiling,  fresh  powdered,  betokening  a 
mild  day.  The  other,  an  old  discoloured,  unkempt, 
angry  caxon,  denoting  frequent  and  bloody  execu- 
tion. Woe  to  the  school,  when  he  made  his  morn- 
ing appearance  in  his  passy,  or  passionate  wig.  No 
comet  expounded  surer. — J.  B.  had  a  heavy  hand. 
I  have  known  him  double  his  knotty  fist  at  a  poor 
trembling  child  (the  maternal  milk  hardly  dry  upon 
its  lips)  with  a  "  Sirrah,  do  you  presume  to  set  your 
wits  at  me?" — Nothing  was  more  common  than  to 
see  him  make  a  headlong  entry  into  the  school-room, 

^  In  this  and  everything  B.  was  the  antipodes  of  his  coadjutor. 
While  the  former  was  digging  his  brains  for  crude  anthems,  worth 
a  pig-nut,  F.  would  be  recreating  his  gentlemanly  fancy  in  the 
more  flowery  walks  of  the  Muses.  A  little  dramatic  effusion  of 
his,  under  the  name  of  Vertumnus  and  Pomona,  is  not  yet  forgot- 
ten by  the  chroniclers  of  that  sort  of  literature.  It  was  accepted 
by  Garrick,  but  the  town  did  not  give  it  their  sanction.  —  B.  used 
to  say  of  it,  in  a  way  of  half-compliment,  half-irony,  that  it  was 
too  classical  for  representation. 
38 


CHRIST'S    HOSPITAL 

from  his  inner  recess,  or  library,  and,  with  turbu- 
lent eye,  singling  out  a  lad,  roar  out,  "  Od's  my  life. 
Sirrah"  (his  favourite  adjuration),  "I  have  a  great 
mind  to  whip  you," — then,  with  as  sudden  a  re- 
tracting impulse,  fling  back  into  his  lair — and,  after 
a  cooling  lapse  of  some  minutes  (during  which  all 
but  the  culprit  had  totally  forgotten  the  context) 
drive  headlong  out  again,  piecing  out  his  imperfect 
sense,  as  if  it  had  been  some  Devil's  Litany,  with 
the  expletory  yell — '^and  I  will  too.''' — In  his  gen- 
tler moods,  when  the  rabidus  furor  was  assuaged, 
he  had  resort  to  an  ingenious  method,  peculiar,  for 
what  I  have  heard,  to  himself,  of  whipping  the  boy, 
and  reading  the  Debates,  at  the  same  time;  a  para- 
graph and  a  lash  between;  which  in  those  times, 
when  parliamentary  oratory  was  most  at  a  height 
and  flourishing  in  these  realms,  was  not  calculated 
to  impress  the  patient  with  a  veneration  for  the 
difFuser  graces  of  rhetoric. 

Once,  and  but  once,  the  uplifted  rod  was  known 
to  fall  ineffectual  from  his  hand — when  droll  squint- 
ing W having  been  caught  putting  the  inside 

of  the  master's  desk  to  a  use  for  which  the  archi- 
tect had  clearly  not  designed  it,  to  justify  himself, 
with  great  simplicity  averred,  that  he  did  not  know 
that  the  thing  had  been  forenoarned.  This  exquisite 
irrecognition  of  any  law  antecedent  to  the  oral  or 
declaratory,  struck  so  irresistibly  upon  the  fancy  of 
all  who  heard  it  (the  pedagogue  himself  not  ex- 
cepted) that  remission  was  unavoidable. 

39 


THE  ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

L.  has  given  credit  to  B.'s  great  merits  as  an  in- 
structor. Coleridge,  in  his  literary  life,  has  pro- 
nounced a  more  intelligible  and  ample  encomium 
on  them.  The  author  of  the  Country  Spectator 
doubts  not  to  compare  him  with  the  ablest  teachers 
of  antiquity.  Perhaps  we  cannot  dismiss  him  better 
than  with  the  pious  ejaculation  of  C. — when  he 
heard  that  his  old  master  was  on  his  death-bed: 
"Poor  J.  B. ! — may  all  his  faults  be  forgiven;  and 
may  he  be  wafted  to  bhss  by  little  cherub  boys,  all 
head  and  wings,  with  no  bottoms  to  reproach  his 
sublunary  infirmities." 

Under  him  were  many  good  and  sound  scholars 
bred. — First  Grecian  of  my  time  was  Lancelot 
Pepys  Stevens,  kindest  of  boys  and  men,  since  Co- 
grammar-master  (and  inseparable  companion)  with 

Dr.  T e.  What  an  edifying  spectacle  did  this 

brace  of  friends  present  to  those  who  remembered 
the  anti-socialities  of  their  predecessors! — You 
never  met  the  one  by  chance  in  the  street  without 
a  wonder,  which  was  quickly  dissipated  by  the  al- 
most immediate  sub-appearance  of  the  other.  Gen- 
erally arm-in-arm,  these  kindly  coadjutors  lightened 
for  each  other  the  toilsome  duties  of  their  profes- 
sion, and  when,  in  advanced  age,  one  found  it  con- 
venient to  retire,  the  other  was  not  long  in  discov- 
ering that  it  suited  him  to  lay  down  the  fasces  also. 
Oh,  it  is  pleasant,  as  it  is  rare,  to  find  the  same  arm 
linked  in  yours  at  forty,  which  at  thirteen  helped  it 
to  turn  over  the  Cicero  de  Amicitid,  or  some  tale  of 
40 


CHRIST'S   HOSPITAL 

Antique  Friendship,  which  the  young  heart  even 
then  was  burning  to  anticipate! — Co-Grecian  with 

S.  was  Th ,  who  has  since  executed  with  ability 

various  diplomatic  functions  at  the  Northern  courts. 

Th was  a  tall,  dark,  saturnine  youth,  sparing  of 

speech,  with  raven  locks. — Thomas  Fanshaw  Mid- 
dleton  followed  him  (now  Bishop  of  Calcutta),  a 
scholar  and  a  gentleman  in  his  teens.  He  has  the 
reputation  of  an  excellent  critic;  and  is  author  (be- 
sides the  Country  Spectator)  of  a  Treatise  on  the 
Greek  Article,  against  Sharpe. — M.  is  said  to  bear 
his  mitre  high  in  India,  where  the  regni  novitas  (I 
dare  say)  sufficiently  justifies  the  bearing,  A  humil- 
ity quite  as  primitive  as  that  of  Jewel  or  Hooker 
might  not  be  exactly  fitted  to  impress  the  minds  of 
those  Anglo- Asiatic  diocesans  with  a  reverence  for 
home  institutions,  and  the  church  which  those  fa- 
thers watered.  The  manners  of  M.  at  school,  though 
firm,  were  mild  and  unassuming.  — Next  to  M.  (if  not 
senior  to  him)  was  Richards,  author  of  the  Aborigi- 
nal Britons,  the  most  spirited  of  the  Oxford  Prize 
Poems;  a  pale,  studious  Grecian. — Then  followed 

poor  S ,  iU-fated  INI !  of  these  the  IVIuse  is 

silent. 

Finding  some  of  Edward's  race 
Unhappy,  pass  their  annals  by. 

Come  back  into  memory,  hke  as  thou  wert  in  the 
dayspring  of  thy  fancies,  with  hope  like  a  fiery  col- 
umn before  thee — the  dark  pillar  not  yet  turned — 
Samuel   Taylor  Coleridge — Logician,  Metaphysi- 
al 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

cian,  Bard! — How  have  I  seen  the  casual  passer 
through  the  Cloisters  stand  still,  entranced  with 
admiration  (while  he  weighed  the  disproportion  be- 
tween the  speech  and  the  garb  of  the  young  Miran- 
dula),  to  hear  thee  unfold,  in  thy  deep  and  sweet 
intonations,  the  mysteries  of  Jamblichus,  or  Ploti- 
nus  (for  even  in  those  years  thou  waxedst  not  pale 
at  such  philosophic  draughts),  or  reciting  Homer  in 

his  Greek,  or  Pindar while  the  walls  of  the  old 

Grey  Friars  re-echoed  to  the  accents  of  the  inspired 
chajity-boy! — Many  were  the  "wit-combats"  (to 
dally  awhile  with  the  words  of  old  Fuller)  between 

him  and  C.  V.  Le  G ,  "which  two  I  behold 

hke  a  Spanish  great  galleon,  and  an  English  man 
of  war:  Master  Coleridge,  like  the  former,  was  built 
far  higher  in  learning,  sohd,  but  slow  in  his  per- 
formances. C.  V.  L.,  with  the  English  man  of  war, 
lesser  in  bulk,  but  lighter  in  sailing,  could  turn  with 
all  times,  tack  about,  and  take  advantage  of  all 
winds,  by  the  quickness  of  his  wit  and  invention." 

Nor  shalt  thou,  their  compeer,  be  quickly  forgot- 
ten, Allen,  with  the  cordial  smile,  and  still  more 
cordial  laugh,  with  which  thou  wert  wont  to  make 
the  old  Cloisters  shake,  in  thy  cognition  of  some 
poignant  jest  of  theirs;  or  the  anticipation  of  some 
more  material,  and  peradventure  practical  one,  of 
thine  own.  Extinct  are  those  smiles,  with  that  beau- 
tiful countenance,  with  which  (for  thou  wert  the 
Nireus  formosus  of  the  school),  in  the  days  of  thy 
maturer  waggery,  thou  didst  disarm  the  wrath  of 
42 


CHRIST'S   HOSPITAL 

infuriated  town-damsel,  who,  incensed  by  provok- 
ing pinch,  turning  tigress-hke  round,  suddenly  con- 
verted by  thy  angel-look,  exchanged  the  half-formed 

terrible  *'6/ ,"  for  a  gentler  greeting — **  bless  thy 

handsome  face!  " 

Next  follow  two,  who  ought  to  be  now  alive, 

and  the  friends  of  Elia — the  junior  Le  G and 

F ;  who  impelled,  the  former  by  a  roving  tem- 
per, the  latter  by  too  quick  a  sense  of  neglect — ill 
capable  of  enduring  the  slights  poor  Sizars  are 
sometimes  subject  to  in  our  seats  of  learning — 
exchanged  their  Alma  Mater  for  the  camp;  per- 
ishing, one  by  climate,  and  one  on  the  plains  of 

Salamanca: — Le  G ,  sanguine,  volatile,  sweet- 

natured;  F ,  dogged,  faithful,  anticipative   of 

insult,  warm-hearted,  with  something  of  the  old 
Roman  height  about  him. 

Fine,  frank-hearted  Fr ,  the  present  master 

of  Hertford,  with  Marmaduke  T ,  mildest  of 

Missionaries — and  both  my  good  friends  still — 
close  the  catalogue  of  Grecians  in  my  time. 


48 


THE   TWO   RACES   OF   MEN 

THE  human  species,  according  to  the  best  theory 
I  can  form  of  it,  is  composed  of  two  distinct 
races,  the  men  who  borrow,  and  the  men  who  lend. 
To  these  two  original  diversities  may  be  reduced 
all  those  impertinent  classifications  of  Gothic  and 
Celtic  tribes,  white  men,  black  men,  red  men.  All 
the  dwellers  upon  earth,  "Parthians,  and  Medes, 
and  Elamites,"  flock  hither,  and  do  naturally  fall  in 
with  one  or  other  of  these  primary  distinctions.  The 
infinite  superiority  of  the  former,  which  I  chose  to 
designate  as  the  great  race,  is  discernible  in  their 
figure,  port,  and  a  certain  instinctive  sovereignty. 
The  latter  are  born  degraded.  "He  shall  serve  his 
brethren."  There  is  something  in  the  air  of  one  of 
this  cast,  lean  and  suspicious;  contrasting  with  the 
open,  trusting,  generous  manners  of  the  other. 

Observe  who  have  been  the  greatest  borrowers  of 
all  ages — Alcibiades — FalstafF — Sir  Richard  Steele 
— our  late  incomparable  Brinsley — what  a  family 
likeness  in  all  four! 

What  a  careless,  even  deportment  hath  your  bor- 
rower! what  rosy  gills!  what  a  beautiful  reliance  on 
Providence  doth  he  manifest, — taking  no  more 
thought  than  lilies!  What  contempt  for  money, — 
accounting  it  (yours  and  mine  especially)  no  better 
than  dross!  What  a  hberal  confounding  of  those 
pedantic  distinctions  of  meum  and  tuum!  or  rather, 
44 


THE   TWO   RACES   OF   MEN 

what  a  noble  simplification  of  language  (beyond 
Tooke),  resolving  these  supposed  opposites  into  one 
clear,  intelligible  pronoun  adjective! — What  near 
approaches  doth  he  make  to  the  primitive  commu- 
nity,— to  the  extent  of  one  half  of  the  principle  at 
least. 

He  is  the  true  taxer  who  "calleth  all  the  world 
up  to  be  taxed";  and  the  distance  is  as  vast  be- 
tween him  and  one  of  us,  as  subsisted  between  the 
Augustan  JNIajesty  and  the  poorest  obolary  Jew 
that  paid  it  tribute-pittance  at  Jerusalem! — His 
exactions,  too,  have  such  a  cheerful,  voluntary  air! 
So  far  removed  from  your  sour  parochial  or  state- 
gatherers, — those  ink-horn  varlets,  who  carry  their 
want  of  welcome  in  their  faces !  He  cometh  to  you 
with  a  smile,  and  troubleth  you  with  no  receipt; 
confining  himself  to  no  set  season.  Every  day  is  his 
Candlemas,  or  his  feast  of  Holy  Michael.  He  ap- 
plieth  the  lene  tormentum  of  a  pleasant  look  to 
your  purse, — which  to  that  gentle  warmth  expands 
her  silken  leaves,  as  naturally  as  the  cloak  of  the 
traveller,  for  which  sun  and  wind  contended!  He 
is  the  true  Propontic  which  never  ebbeth!  The 
sea  which  taketh  handsomely  at  each  man's  hand. 
In  vain  the  victim,  whom  he  delighteth  to  honour, 
struggles  with  destiny;  he  is  in  the  net.  Lend 
therefore  cheerfully,  O  man  ordained  to  lend — 
that  thou  lose  not  in  the  end,  with  thy  worldly 
penny,  the  reversion  promised.  Combine  not  pre- 
posterously in  thine  own  person  the  penalties  of 

45 


THE   ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

Lazarus  and  of  Dives! — but,  when  thou  seest  the 
proper  authority  coming,  meet  it  smilingly,  as  it 
were  half-way.  Come,  a  handsome  sacrifice!  See 
how  light  he  makes  of  it !  Strain  not  courtesies  with 
a  noble  enemy. 

Refl^ections  like  the  foregoing  were  forced  upon 
my  mind  by  the  death  of  my  old  friend,  Ralph 
Bigod,  Esq.,  who  parted  this  life  on  Wednesday 
evening;  dying,  as  he  had  lived,  without  much 
trouble.  He  boasted  himself  a  descendant  from 
mighty  ancestors  of  that  name,  who  heretofore 
held  ducal  dignities  in  this  realm.  In  his  actions 
and  sentiments  he  belied  not  the  stock  to  which  he 
pretended.  Early  in  life  he  found  himself  invested 
with  ample  revenues;  which,  with  that  noble  disin- 
terestedness which  I  have  noticed  as  inherent  in 
men  of  the  great  race,  he  took  almost  immediate 
measures  entirely  to  dissipate  and  bring  to  nothing: 
for  there  is  something  revolting  in  the  idea  of  a 
king  holding  a  private  purse;  and  the  thoughts  of 
Bigod  were  all  regal.  Thus  furnished,  by  the  very 
act  of  disfurnishment;  getting  rid  of  the  cumber- 
some luggage  of  riches,  more  apt  (as  one  sings) 

To  slacken  virtue,  and  abate  her  edge. 

Than  prompt  her  to  do  aught  may  merit  praise, 

he  set  forth,  like  some  Alexander,  upon  his  great 
enterprise,  "borrowing  and  to  borrow!" 

In  his  periegesis,  or  triumphant  progress  through- 
out this  island,  it  has  been  calculated  that  he  laid  a 
46 


THE   TWO   RACES   OF   MEN 

tythe  part  of  the  inhabitants  under  contribution.  I 
reject  this  estimate  as  greatly  exaggerated: — but 
having  had  the  honour  of  accompanying  my  friend, 
divers  times,  in  his  perambulations  about  this  vast 
city,  I  own  I  was  greatly  struck  at  first  with  the 
prodigious  number  of  faces  we  met,  who  claimed  a 
sort  of  respectful  acquaintance  with  us.  He  was  one 
day  so  obhging  as  to  explain  the  phenomenon.  It 
seems,  these  were  his  tributaries ;  feeders  of  his  ex- 
chequer; gentlemen,  his  good  friends  (as  he  was 
pleased  to  express  himself),  to  whom  he  had  occa- 
sionally been  beholden  for  a  loan.  Their  multitudes 
did  no  way  disconcert  him.  He  rather  took  a  pride 
in  numbering  them;  and,  with  Comus,  seemed 
pleased  to  be  "stocked  with  so  fair  a  herd." 

With  such  sources,  it  was  a  wonder  how  he  con- 
trived to  keep  his  treasury  always  empty.  He  did  it 
by  force  of  an  aphorism,  which  he  had  often  in  his 
mouth,  that  "money  kept  longer  than  three  days 
stinks."  So  he  made  use  of  it  while  it  was  fresh.  A 
good  part  he  drank  away  (for  he  was  an  excellent 
toss-pot),  some  he  gave  away,  the  rest  he  threw 
away,  literally  tossing  and  hurling  it  violently  from 
him — as  boys  do  burrs,  or  as  if  it  had  been  infec- 
tious,—  into  ponds,  or  ditches,  or  deep  holes,  inscru- 
table cavities  of  the  earth; — or  he  would  bury  it 
(where  he  would  never  seek  it  again)  by  a  river's 
side  under  some  bank,  which  (he  would  facetiously 
observe)  paid  no  interest — ^but  out  away  from  him 
it  must  go  peremptorily,  as  Hagar's  offspring  into 

47 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

the  wilderness,  while  it  was  sweet.  He  never  missed 
it.  The  streams  were  perennial  which  fed  his  fisc. 
When  new  supplies  became  necessary,  the  first  per- 
son that  had  the  felicity  to  fall  in  with  him,  friend 
or  stranger,  was  sure  to  contribute  to  the  deficiency. 
For  Bigod  had  an  undeniable  way  with  him.  He 
had  a  cheerful,  open  exterior,  a  quick  jovial  eye,  a 
bald  forehead,  just  touched  with  grey  {cana  fides). 
He  anticipated  no  excuse,  and  found  none.  And, 
waiving  for  a  while  my  theory  as  to  the  great  race, 
I  would  put  it  to  the  most  untheorising  reader,  who 
may  at  times  have  disposable  coin  in  his  pocket, 
whether  it  is  not  more  repugnant  to  the  kindliness 
of  his  nature  to  refuse  such  a  one  as  I  am  describ- 
ing, than  to  say  no  to  a  poor  petitionary  rogue  (your 
bastard  borrower),  who,  by  his  inumping  visnomy, 
tells  you  that  he  expects  nothing  better;  and,  there- 
fore, whose  preconceived  notions  and  expectations 
you  do  in  reality  so  much  less  shock  in  the  refusal. 

When  I  think  of  this  man;  his  fiery  glow  of 
heart;  his  swell  of  feeling;  how  magnificent,  how 
ideal  he  was;  how  great  at  the  midnight  hour;  and 
when  I  compare  with  him  the  companions  with 
whom  I  have  associated  since,  I  grudge  the  saving 
of  a  few  idle  ducats,  and  think  that  I  am  fallen  into 
the  society  of  lenders,  and  little  men. 

To  one  like  Elia,  whose  treasures  are  rather  cased 

in  leather  covers  than  closed  in  iron  coffers,  there 

is  a  class  of  alienators  more  formidable  than  that 

which  I  have  touched  upon ;  I  mean  your  borrowers 

48 


THE   TWO   RACES   OF   MEN 

of  books — those  mutilators  of  collections,  spoilers 
of  the  symmetry  of  shelves,  and  creators  of  odd 
volumes.  There  is  Comberbatch,  matchless  in  his 
depredations ! 

That  foul  gap  in  the  bottom  shelf  facing  you,  like 
a  great  eye-tooth  knocked  out — (you  are  now  with 
me  in  my  httle  back  study  in  Bloomsbury,  Reader!) 
— with  the  huge  Switzer-like  tomes  on  each  side 
(like  the  Guildhall  giants,  in  their  reformed  posture, 
guardant  of  nothing)  once  held  the  tallest  of  my 
foUos,  Opei^a  Bonaventurce,  choice  and  massy  di- 
vinity, to  which  its  two  supporters  (school  divinity 
also,  but  of  a  lesser  calibre, — Bellarmine,  and  Holy 
Thomas),  showed  but  as  dwarfs, — itself  an  Asca- 
partl — that  Comberbatch  abstracted  upon  the  faith 
of  a  theory  he  holds,  which  is  more  easy,  I  con- 
fess, for  me  to  suffer  by  than  to  refute,  namely, 
that  "the  title  to  property  in  a  book  (my  Bona  ven- 
ture, for  instance)  is  in  exact  ratio  to  the  claimant's 
powers  of  understanding  and  appreciating  the  same." 
Should  he  go  on  acting  upon  this  theory,  which  of 
our  shelves  is  safe? 

The  slight  vacuum  in  the  left-hand  case — two 
shelves  from  the  ceiling — -scarcely  distinguishable 
but  by  the  quick  eye  of  a  loser — was  whilom  the 
commodious  resting-place  of  Browne  on  Urn  Burial. 
C.  will  hardly  allege  that  he  knows  more  about  that 
treatise  than  I  do,  who  introduced  it  to  him,  and 
was  indeed  the  first  (of  the  moderns)  to  discover  its 
beauties  ^ — but  so  have  I  known  a  foolish  lover  to 

49 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

praise  his  mistress  in  the  presence  of  a  rival  more 
quaUfied  to  carry  her  off  than  himself. — Just  below, 
Dodsley's  dramas  want  their  fourth  volume,  where 
Vittoria  Corombona  is!  The  remainder  nine  are  as 
distasteful  as  Priam's  refuse  sons,  when  the  Fates 
borrowed  Hector.  Here  stood  the  Anatomy  of  Mel- 
ancholy, in  sober  state. — There  loitered  the  Com- 
plete Angler;  quiet  as  in  Hfe,  by  some  stream  side. 
In  yonder  nook,  John  Buncle,  a  widower-volume, 
with  "eyes  closed,"  mourns  his  ravished  mate. 

One  justice  I  must  do  my  friend,  that  if  he  some- 
times, like  the  sea,  sweeps  away  a  treasure,  at  an- 
other time,  sea-like,  he  throws  up  as  rich  an  equiva- 
lent to  match  it.  I  have  a  small  under- collection  of 
this  nature  (my  friend's  gatherings  in  his  various 
calls),  picked  up,  he  has  forgotten  at  what  odd 
places,  and  deposited  with  as  little  memory  at  mine. 
I  take  in  these  orphans,  the  twice-deserted.  These 
proselytes  of  the  gate  are  welcome  as  the  true  He- 
brews. There  they  stand  in  conjunction;  natives, 
and  naturalised.  The  latter  seem  as  little  disposed 
to  inquire  out  their  true  lineage  as  I  am. — I  charge 
no  warehouse-room  for  these  deodands,  nor  shall 
ever  put  myself  to  the  ungentlemanly  trouble  of 
advertising  a  sale  of  them  to  pay  expenses. 

To  lose  a  volume  to  C.  carries  some  sense  and 
meaning  in  it.  You  are  sure  that  he  will  make  one 
hearty  meal  on  your  viands,  if  he  can  give  no  ac- 
count of  the  platter  after  it.  But  what  moved  thee, 
wayward,  spiteful  K.,  to  be  so  importunate  to  carry 
50 


THE   TWO   RACES   OF   MEN 

off  with  thee,  m  spite  of  tears  and  adj  urations  to 
thee  to  forbear,  the  Letters  of  that  princely  woman, 
the  thrice  noble  JNIargaret  Newcastle? — knowing 
at  the  time,  and  knowing  that  I  knew  also,  thou 
most  assuredly  wouldst  never  turn  over  one  leaf  of 
the  illustrious  folio: — what  but  the  mere  spirit  of 
contradiction,  and  childish  love  of  getting  the  better 
of  thy  friend? — Then,  worst  cut  of  all  I  to  transport 
it  with  thee  to  the  Gallican  land — 

Unworthy  land  to  harbour  such  a  sweetness, 
A  virtue  in  which  all  ennobling  thoughts  dwelt. 
Pure  thoughts,  kind  thoughts,  high  thoughts,  her  sex's 
wonder! 

hadst  thou  not  thy  play-books,  and  books  of 


jests  and  fancies,  about  thee,  to  keep  thee  merry, 
even  as  thou  keepest  all  companies  with  thy  quips 
and  mirthful  tales  ?  Child  of  the  Greenroom,  it  was 
unkindly  done  of  thee.  Thy  wife,  too,  tha*^  part- 
French,  better-part-Englishwoman ! — that  she  could 
fix  upon  no  other  treatise  to  bear  away,  in  kindly 
token  of  remembering  us,  than  the  works  of  Fulke 
Greville,  Lord  Brook — of  which  no  Frenchman, 
nor  woman  of  France,  Italy,  or  England,  was  ever 
by  nature  constituted  to  comprehend  a  tittle!  Was 
there  not  Zimmerman  oji  Solitude? 

Reader,  if  haply  thou  art  blessed  with  a  moder- 
ate collection,  be  shy  of  showing  it;  or  if  thy  heart 
overfloweth  to  lend  them,  lend  thy  books;  but  let 
it  be  to  such  a  one  as  S.  T.  C. — he  will  return 
them  (generally  anticipating  the  time  appointed) 

hi 


THE   ESSAYS    OF   ELIA 

with  usury ;  enriched  with  annotations,  tripUng  their 
value.  I  have  had  experience.  Many  are  these  pre- 
cious MSS.  of  his — (in  matter  oftentimes,  and  al- 
most in  quantity  not  unfrequently,  vying  with  the 
originals)  in  no  very  clerkly  hand — legible  in  my 
Daniel ;  in  old  Burton ;  in  Sir  Thomas  Browne ;  and 
those  abstruser  cogitations  of  the  Greville,  now, 
alas!  wandering  in  Pagan  lands.  —  I  counsel  thee, 
shut  not  thy  heart,  nor  thy  library,  against  S.  T.  C. 


52 


NEW   YEAR'S   EVE 

EVERY  man  hath  two  birthdays:  two  days  at 
least,  in  every  year,  which  set  him  upon  revolv- 
ing the  lapse  of  time,  as  it  affects  his  mortal  dura-*, 
tion.  The  one  is  that  which  in  an  especial  manner 
he  termeth  his.  In  the  gradual  desuetude  of  old  ob- 
servances, this  custom  of  solemnizing  our  proper 
birthday  hath  nearly  passed  away,  or  is  left  to  chil- 
dren, who  reflect  nothing  at  all  about  the  matter, 
nor  understand  anything  in  it  beyond  cake  and 
orange.  But  the  birth  of  a  New  Year  is  of  an  in- 
terest too  wide  to  be  pretermitted  by  king  or  cob- 
bler. No  one  ever  regarded  the  First  of  January 
with  indifference.  It  is  that  from  which  all  date 
their  time,  and  count  upon  what  is  left.  It  is  the 
nativity  of  our  common  Adam. 

Of  all  sound  of  all  bells — (bells,  the  music  nigh- 
est  bordering  upon  heaven)  —  most  solemn  and 
touching  is  the  peal  which  rings  out  the  Old  Year. 
I  never  hear  it  without  a  gathering-up  of  my  mind 
to  a  concentration  of  all  the  images  that  have  been 
diffused  over  the  past  twelvemonth;  all  I  have  done 
or  suffered,  performed  or  neglected,  in  that  re- 
gretted time.  I  begin  to  know  its  worth,  as  when 
a  person  dies.  It  takes  a  personal  colour;  nor  was 
it  a  poetical  flight  in  a  contemporary,  when  he  ex- 
claimed— 

I  saw  the  skirts  of  the  departing  Year. 

53 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

It  is  no  more  than  what  in  sober  sadness  every 
one  of  us  seems  to  be  conscious  of,  in  that  awful 
leave-taking.  I  am  sure  I  felt  it,  and  all  felt  it  with 
me,  last  night;  though  some  of  my  companions 
affected  rather  to  manifest  an  exhilaration  at  the 
birth  of  the  coming  year,  than  any  very  tender  re- 
grets for  the  decease  of  its  predecessor.  But  I  am 
none  of  those  who — 

Welcome  the  coming,  speed  the  parting  guest. 

I  am  naturally,  beforehand,  shy  of  novelties ;  new 
books,  new  faces,  new  years, — from  some  mental 
twist  which  makes  it  difficult  in  me  to  face  the  pro- 
spective. I  have  almost  ceased  to  hope ;  and  am  san- 
guine only  in  the  prospects  of  other  (former  years). 
I  plunge  into  foregone  visions  and  conclusions.  I 
encounter  pell-mell  with  past  disappointments.  I 
am  armour-proof  against  old  discouragements.  I  for- 
give, or  overcome  in  fancy,  old  adversaries.  I  play 
over  again /b?'  love,  as  the  gamesters  phrase  it,  games 
for  which  I  once  paid  so  dear.  I  would  scarce  now 
have  any  of  those  untoward  accidents  and  events  of 
my  life  reversed.  I  would  no  more  alter  them  than 
the  incidents  of  some  well-contrived  novel.  Me- 
thinks,  it  is  better  that  I  should  have  pined  away 
seven  of  my  goldenest  years,  when  I  was  thrall  to 

the  fair  hair,  and  fairer  eyes,  of  Alice  W n,  than 

that  so  passionate  a  love  adventure  should  be  lost. 
It  was  better  that  our  family  should  have  missed 
that  legacy,  which  old  Dorrell  cheated  us  of,  than 
54 


NEW   YEAR'S   EVE 

that  I  should  have  at  this  moment  two  thousand 
pounds  i?i  banco,  and  be  without  the  idea  of  that 
specious  old  rogue. 

In  a  degree  beneath  manhood,  it  is  my  infirmity 
to  look  back  upon  those  early  days.  Do  I  advance 
a  paradox  when  I  say,  that,  skipping  over  the  in- 
tervention of  forty  years,  a  man  may  have  leave  to 
love  himself,  without  the  imputation  of  self-love? 

If  I  know  aught  of  myself,  no  one  whose  mind  is 
introspective — and  mine  is  painfully  so — can  have 
a  less  respect  for  his  present  identity  than  I  have  for 
the  man  EUa.  I  know  him  to  be  light,  and  vain,  and 
humoursome ;  a  notorious  *  *  *  ;  addicted  to  *  *  *  ; 
averse  from  counsel,  neither  taking  it,  nor  offering 
it ; — *  *  *  besides ;  a  stammering  buffoon ;  what  you 
will ;  lay  it  on,  and  spare  not ;  I  subscribe  to  it  all, 
and  much  more,  than  thou  canst  be  willing  to  lay 
at  his  door:— but  for  the  child  EUa — that  "other 
me,"  there,  in  the  background — I  must  take  leave 
to  cherish  the  remembrance  of  that  young  master 
— with  as  little  reference,  I  protest,  to  this  stupid 
changeling  of  five-and-forty,  as  if  it  had  been  a  child 
of  some  other  house,  and  not  of  my  parents.  I  can 
cry  over  its  patient  small-pox  at  five,  and  rougher 
medicaments.  I  can  lay  its  poor  fevered  head  upon 
the  sick  pillow  at  Christ's,  and  wake  with  it  in  sur- 
prise at  the  gentle  posture  of  maternal  tenderness 
hanging  over  it,  that  unknown  had  watched  its 
sleep.  I  know  how  it  shrank  from  any  the  least 
colour  of  falsehood. — God  help  thee,  Elia,  how  art 

55 


THE   ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

thou  changed! — Thou  art  sophisticated. — I  know 
how  honest,  how  courageous  (for  a  weakhng)  it  was 
— how  reUgious,  how  imaginative,  how  hopefull 
From  what  have  I  not  fallen,  if  the  child  I  remem- 
ber was  indeed  myself, — and  not  some  dissembling 
guardian,  presenting  a  false  identity,  to  give  the  rule 
to  my  unpractised  steps,  and  regulate  the  tone  of 
my  moral  being! 

That  I  am  fond  of  indulging,  beyond  a  hope  of 
sympathy,  in  such  retrospection,  may  be  the  symp- 
tom of  some  sickly  idiosyncrasy.  Or  is  it  owing  to 
another  cause :  simply,  that  being  without  wife  or 
family,  I  have  not  learned  to  project  myself  enough 
out  of  myself;  and  having  no  offspring  of  my  own 
to  dally  with,  I  turn  back  upon  memory,  and  adopt 
my  own  early  idea,  as  my  heir  and  favourite?  If 
these  speculations  seem  fantastical  to  thee,  reader 
— (a  busy  man,  perchance),  if  I  tread  out  of  the 
way  of  thy  sympathy,  and  am  singularly  conceited 
only,  I  retire,  impenetrable  to  ridicule,  under  the 
phantom  cloud  of  Elia. 

The  elders,  with  whom  I  was  brought  up,  were 
of  a  character  not  likely  to  let  slip  the  sacred  ob- 
servance of  any  old  institution ;  and  the  ringing  out 
of  the  Old  Year  was  kept  by  them  with  circum- 
stances of  peculiar  ceremony. — In  those  days  the 
sound  of  those  midnight  chimes,  though  it  seemed 
to  raise  hilarity  in  aU  around  me,  never  failed  to 
bring  a  train  of  pensive  imagery  into  my  fancy.  Yet 
I  then  scarce  conceived  what  it  meant,  or  thought 
56 


NEW   YEAR'S   EVE 

of  it  as  a  reckoning  that  concerned  me.  Not  child- 
hood alone,  but  the  young  man  till  thirty,  never 
feels  practically  that  he  is  mortal.  He  knows  it  in- 
deed, and,  if  need  were,  he  could  preach  a  homily 
on  the  fragihty  of  hfe;  but  he  brings  it  not  home  to 
himself,  any  more  than  in  a  hot  June  we  can  appro- 
priate to  our  imagination  the  freezing  days  of  De- 
cember. But  now,  shall  I  confess  a  truth? — I  feel 
these  audits  but  too  powerfully.  I  begin  to  count 
the  probabihties  of  my  duration,  and  to  grudge  at 
the  expenditure  of  moments  and  shortest  periods, 
hke  miser's  farthings.  In  proportion  as  the  years 
both  lessen  and  shorten,  I  set  more  count  upon 
their  periods,  and  would  fain  lay  my  ineffectual  fin- 
ger upon  the  spoke  of  the  great  wheel.  I  am  not  con- 
tent to  pass  away  "like  a  weaver's  shuttle."  Those 
metaphors  solace  me  not,  nor  sweeten  the  unpala- 
table draught  of  mortahty.  I  care  not  to  be  carried 
with  the  tide,  that  smoothly  bears  human  life  to 
eternity ;  and  reluct  at  the  inevitable  course  of  des- 
tiny. I  am  in  love  with  this  green  earth;  the  face  of 
town  and  country;  the  unspeakable  rural  solitudes, 
and  the  sweet  security  of  streets.  I  would  set  up  my 
tabernacle  here.  I  am  content  to  stand  still  at  the 
age  to  which  I  am  arrived;  I,  and  my  friends:  to  be 
no  younger,  no  richer,  no  handsomer.  I  do  not  want 
to  be  weaned  by  age;  or  drop,  like  mellow  fruit,  as 
they  say,  into  the  grave. — Any  alteration,  on  this 
earth  of  mine,  in  diet  or  in  lodging,  puzzles  and  dis- 
composes me.  My  household-gods  plant  a  terrible 

57 


THE   ESSAYS   OF    ELIA 

fixed  foot,  and  are  not  rooted  up  without  blood. 
They  do  not  willingly  seek  Lavinian  shores.  A  new 
state  of  being  staggers  me. 

Sun,  and  sky,  and  breeze,  and  solitary  walks,  and 
summer  holidays,  and  the  greenness  of  fields,  and 
the  delicious  juices  of  meats  and  fishes,  and  society, 
and  the  cheerful  glass,  and  candlelight,  and  fireside 
conversations,  and  innocent  vanities,  and  jests,  and 
irony  itself — do  these  things  go  out  with  life? 

Can  a  ghost  laugh,  or  shake  his  gaunt  sides,  when 
you  are  pleasant  with  him? 

And  you,  my  midnight  darlings,  my  Folios;  must 
I  part  with  the  intense  delight  of  having  you  (huge 
armfuls)  in  my  embraces  ?  Must  knowledge  come  to 
me,  if  it  come  at  all,  by  some  awkward  experiment 
of  intuition,  and  no  longer  by  this  familiar  process 
of  reading? 

Shall  I  enjoy  friendships  there,  wanting  the  smil- 
ing indications  which  point  me  to  them  here, — 
the  recognisable  face — the  "sweet  assurance  of  a 
look"? 

In  winter  this  intolerable  disinclination  to  dying 
— ^to  give  it  its  mildest  name — does  more  especially 
haunt  and  beset  me.  In  a  genial  August  noon,  be- 
neath a  sweltering  sky,  death  is  almost  problematic. 
At  those  times  do  such  poor  snakes  as  myself  en- 
joy an  immortality.  Then  we  expand  and  burgeon. 
Then  we  are  as  strong  again,  as  valiant  again,  as  wise 
again,  and  a  great  deal  taller.  The  blast  that  nips 
and  shrinks  me,  puts  me  in  thoughts  of  death.  All 
58 


NEW   YEAR'S   EVE 

things  allied  to  the  insubstantial,  wait  upon  that 
master  feeling ;  cold,  numbness,  dreams,  perplexity; 
moonlight  itself,  with  its  shadowy  and  spectral  ap- 
pearances,— that  cold  ghost  of  the  sun,  or  Phoebus' 
sickly  sister,  like  that  innutritions  one  denounced  in 
the  Canticles: — I  am  none  of  her  minions — I  hold 
with  the  Persian. 

Whatsoever  thwarts,  or  puts  me  out  of  my  way, 
brings  death  unto  my  mind.  All  partial  evils,  like 
humours,  run  into  that  capital  plague-sore. — ^I  have 
heard  some  profess  an  indifference  to  life.  Such  hail 
the  end  of  their  existence  as  a  port  of  refuge ;  and 
speak  of  the  grave  as  of  some  soft  arms,  in  which 
they  may  slumber  as  on  a  pillow.  Some  have  wooed 

death but  out  upon  thee,  I  say,  thou  foul,  ugly 

phantom!  I  detest,  abhor,  execrate,  and  (with  Friar 
John)  give  thee  to  six  score  thousand  devils,  as  in 
no  instance  to  be  excused  or  tolerated,  but  shunned 
as  an  universal  viper;  to  be  branded,  proscribed, 
and  spoken  evil  of!  In  no  way  can  I  be  brought  to 
digest  thee,  thou  thin,  melancholy  Privation,  or 
more  frightful  and  confounding  Positive! 

Those  antidotes,  prescribed  against  the  fear  of 
thee,  are  altogether  frigid  and  insulting,  like  thy- 
self. For  what  satisfaction  hath  a  man,  that  he 
shall  "lie  down  with  kings  and  emperors  in  death," 
who  in  his  hfetime  never  greatly  coveted  the  so- 
ciety of  such  bed-fellows? — or,  forsooth,  that  "so 
shall  the  fairest  face  appear"? — why,  to  comfort 

me,  must  Alice  W n  be  a  goblin?  JNIore  than 

59 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

aU,  I  conceive  disgust  at  those  impertinent  and 
misbecoming  familiarities,  inscribed  upon  your  ordi- 
nary tombstones.  Every  dead  man  must  take  upon 
himself  to  be  lecturing  me  with  his  odious  truism, 
that  "Such  as  he  now  is  I  must  shortly  be."  Not  so 
shortly,  friend,  perhaps,  as  thou  imaginest.  In  the 
meantime  I  am  alive.  I  move  about.  I  am  worth 
twenty  of  thee.  Know  thy  betters !  Thy  New  Years' 
days  are  past.  I  survive,  a  jolly  candidate  for  1821. 
Another  cup  of  wine— and  while  that  turncoat 
bell,  that  just  now  mournfully  chanted  the  obse- 
quies of  1820  departed,  with  changed  notes  lustily 
rings  in  a  successor,  let  us  attune  to  its  peal  the 
song  made  on  a  like  occasion,  by  hearty,  cheerful 
Mr.  Cotton. 

The   New   Year 

HARK,  the  cock  crows,  and  yon  bright  star 
Tells  us,  the  day  himself 's  not  far; 
And  see  where,  breaking  from  the  night. 
He  gilds  the  western  hills  with  light. 
With  him  old  Janus  doth  appear. 
Peeping  into  the  future  year. 
With  such  a  look  as  seems  to  say 
The  prospect  is  not  good  that  way. 
Thus  do  we  rise  ill  sights  to  see. 
And  'gainst  ourselves  to  prophesy; 
When  the  prophetic  fear  of  things 
A  more  tormenting  mischief  brings. 
More  full  of  soul-tormenting  gall 
Than  direst  mischiefs  can  befall. 
But  stay!  but  stay!  methinks  my  sight. 
Better  informed  by  clearer  light, 

60 


NEW   YEARS   EVE 

Discerns  sereneness  in  that  brow 

That  all  contracted  seemed  but  now. 

His  revers'd  face  may  show  distaste. 

And  frown  upon  the  ills  are  past; 

But  that  which  this  way  looks  is  clear. 

And  smiles  upon  the  New-born  Year. 

He  looks  too  from  a  place  so  high, 

The  year  lies  open  to  his  eye; 

And  all  the  moments  open  are 

To  the  exact  discoverer. 

Yet  more  and  more  he  smiles  upon 

The  happy  revolution. 

Why  should  we  then  suspect  or  fear 

The  influences  of  a  year. 

So  smiles  upon  us  the  first  morn, 

And  speaks  us  good  so  soon  as  born.'* 

Plague  on't!  the  last  was  ill  enough. 

This  cannot  but  make  better  proof; 

Or,  at  the  worst,  as  we  brush'd  through 

The  last,  why  so  we  may  this  too; 

And  then  the  next  in  reason  shou'd 

Be  superexcellently  good: 

For  the  worst  ills  (we  daily  see) 

Have  no  more  perpetuity 

Than  the  best  fortunes  that  do  fall; 

Which  also  bring  us  wherewithal 

Longer  their  being  to  support. 

Than  those  do  of  the  other  sort: 

And  who  has  one  good  year  in  three. 

And  yet  repines  at  destiny, 

Appeal's  ungrateful  in  the  case, 

And  merits  not  the  good  he  has. 

Then  let  us  Avelcome  the  New  Guest 

With  lusty  brimmers  of  the  best: 

Mirth  always  should  Good  Fortune  meet. 

And  renders  e'en  Disaster  sweet: 

61 


THE   ESSAYS    OF   ELIA 

And  though  the  Princerss  turn  her  back. 
Let  us  but  line  ourselves  with  sack. 
We  better  shall  by  far  hold  out, 
Till  the  next  year  she  face  about. 

How  say  you,  reader — do  not  these  verses  smack 
of  the  rough  magnanimity  of  the  old  EngUsh  vein  ? 
Do  they  not  fortify  Uke  a  cordial;  enlarging  the 
heart,  and  productive  of  sweet  blood,  and  generous 
spirits,  in  the  concoction?  Where  be  those  puling 
fears  of  death,  just  now  expressed  or  affected? — 
Passed  like  a  cloud— absorbed  in  the  purging  sun- 
light of  clear  poetry — clean  washed  away  by  a  wave 
of  genuine  Helicon,  your  only  Spa  for  these  hypo- 
chondries.  And  now  another  cup  of  the  generous! 
and  a  merry  New  Year,  and  many  of  them  to  you 
all,  my  masters! 


62 


MRS.  BATTLE'S  OPINIONS  ON  WHIST 

AC  LEAR  fire,  a  clean  hearth/  and  the  rigour 
of  the  game."  This  was  the  celebrated  xvish  of 
old  Sarah  Battle  (now  with  God),  who,  next  to  her 
devotions,  loved  a  good  game  of  whist.  She  was 
none  of  your  lukewarm  gamesters,  your  half-and- 
half  players,  who  have  no  objection  to  take  a  hand, 
if  you  want  one  to  make  up  a  rubber;  who  affirm 
that  they  have  no  pleasure  in  winning;  that  they 
hke  to  win  one  game  and  lose  another ;2  that  they 
can  while  away  an  hour  very  agreeably  at  a  card- 
table,  but  are  indifferent  whether  they  play  or  no; 
and  will  desire  an  adversary,  who  has  slipped  a 
wrong  card,  to  take  it  up  and  play  another.  These 
insufferable  triflers  are  the  curse  of  a  table.  One  of 
these  flies  will  spoil  a  whole  pot.  Of  such  it  may  be 
said  that  they  do  not  play  at  cards,  but  only  play 
at  playing  at  them. 

Sarah  Battle  was  none  of  that  breed.  She  detested 
them,  as  I  do,  from  her  heart  and  soul;  and  would 
not,  save  upon  a  striking  emergency,  willingly  seat 
herself  at  the  same  table  with  them.  She  loved  a 
thorough-paced  partner,  a  determined  enemy.  She 
took,  and  gave,  no  concessions.  She  hated  favours. 

[^  This  was  before  the  introduction  of  rugs.  Reader.  You  must 
remember  the  intolerable  crash  of  the  unswept  cinders  betwixt 
your  foot  and  the  marble.] 

[^  As  if  a  sportsman  should  tell  you  he  liked  to  kill  a  fox  one  day 
and  lose  him  the  next.] 

63 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

She  never  made  a  revoke,  nor  ever  passed  it  over  in 
her  adversary  without  exacting  the  utmost  forfei- 
ture. She  fought  a  good  fight:  cut  and  thrust.  She 
held  not  her  good  sword  (her  cards)  *'hke  a  dancer." 
She  sate  bolt  upright;  and  neither  showed  you  her 
cards,  nor  desired  to  see  yours.  All  people  have  their 
blind  side — their  superstitions;  and  I  have  heard 
her  declare,  under  the  rose,  that  Hearts  was  her 
favourite  suit. 

I  never  in  my  life — and  I  knew  Sarah  Battle 
many  of  the  best  years  of  it — saw  her  take  out  her 
snuff-box  when  it  was  her  turn  to  play;  or  snufF  a 
candle  in  the  middle  of  a  game;  or  ring  for  a  ser- 
vant, till  it  was  fairly  over.  She  never  introduced,  or 
connived  at,  miscellaneous  conversation  during  its 
process.  As  she  emphatically  observed,  cards  were 
cards;  and  if  I  ever  saw  unmingled  distaste  in  her 
fine  last-century  countenance,  it  was  at  the  airs  of 
a  young  gentleman  of  a  literary  turn,  who  had  been 
with  difficulty  persuaded  to  take  a  hand;  and  who, 
in  his  excess  of  candour,  declared,  that  he  thought 
there  was  no  harm  in  unbending  the  mind  now  and 
then,  after  serious  studies,  in  recreations  of  that 
kind!  She  could  not  bear  to  have  her  noble  occu- 
pation, to  which  she  wound  up  her  faculties,  con- 
sidered in  that  light.  It  was  her  business,  her  duty, 
the  thing  she  came  into  the  world  to  do, — and  she 
did  it.  She  unbent  her  mind  afterwards — over  a 
book. 

Pope  was  her  favourite  author :  his  Rape  of  the 
64 


MRS.  BATTLE'S  OPINIONS  ON  WHIST 

Lock  her  favourite  work.  She  once  did  me  the  fa- 
vour to  play  over  with  me  (with  the  cards)  his  cele- 
brated game  of  Ombre  in  that  poem;  and  to  explain 
to  me  how  far  it  agreed  with,  and  in  what  points  it 
would  be  found  to  differ  from,  tradrille.  Her  illus- 
trations were  apposite  and  poignant ;  and  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  sending  the  substance  of  them  to  Mr. 
Bowles;  but  I  suppose  they  came  too  late  to  be  in- 
serted among  his  ingenious  notes  upon  that  author. 
Quadrille,  she  has  often  told  me,  was  her  first 
love;  but  whist  had  engaged  her  maturer  esteem. 
The  former,  she  said,  was  showy  and  specious,  and 
likely  to  allure  young  persons.  The  uncertainty  and 
quick  shifting  of  partners — a  thing  which  the  con- 
stancy of  whist  abhors ;  the  dazzling  supremacy  and 
regal  investiture  of  Spadille — absurd,  as  she  justly 
observed,  in  the  pure  aristocracy  of  whist,  where  his 
crown  and  garter  give  him  no  proper  power  above 
his  brother-nobility  of  the  Aces; — the  giddy  van- 
ity, so  taking  to  the  inexperienced,  of  playing  alone ; 
above  all,  the  overpowering  attractions  of  a  Sans 
Prendre  Vole, — to  the  triumph  of  which  there  is 
certainly  nothing  parallel  or  approaching,  in  the 
contingencies  of  whist; — all  these,  she  would  say, 
make  quadrille  a  game  of  captivation  to  the  young 
and  enthusiastic.  But  whist  was  the  solider  game: 
that  was  her  word.  It  was  a  long  meal;  not  like 
quadrille,  a  feast  of  snatches.  One  or  two  rubbers 
might  co-extend  in  duration  with  an  evening.  They 
gave  time  to  form  rooted  friendships,  to  cultivate 

65 


THE   ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

steady  enmities.  She  despised  the  chance-started, 
capricious,  and  ever-fluctuating  aUiances  of  the 
other.  The  skirmishes  of  quadrille,  she  would  say, 
reminded  her  of  the  petty  ephemeral  embroilments 
of  the  little  Italian  states,  depicted  by  Machiavel: 
perpetually  changing  postures  and  connexions ;  bit- 
ter foes  to-day,  sugared  darlings  to-morrow ;  kissing 
and  scratching  in  a  breath  ;^ — but  the  wars  of  whist 
were  comparable  to  the  long,  steady,  deep-rooted, 
rational  antipathies  of  the  great  French  and  English 
nations. 

A  grave  simplicity  was  what  she  chiefly  admired 
in  her  favourite  game.  There  was  nothing  silly  in 
it,  Hke  the  nob  in  cribbage — nothing  superfluous. 
^o  flushes — that  most  irrational  of  all  pleas  that  a 
reasonable  being  can  set  up: — that  any  one  should 
claim  four  by  virtue  of  holding  cards  of  the  same 
mark  and  colour,  without  reference  to  the  playing 
of  the  game,  or  the  individual  worth  or  pretensions 
of  the  cards  themselves !  She  held  this  to  be  a  sole- 
cism; as  pitiful  an  ambition  at  cards  as  alliteration 
is  in  authorship.  She  despised  superficiaUty,  and 
looked  deeper  than  the  colours  of  things.— Suits 
were  soldiers,  she  would  say,  and  must  have  a  uni- 
formity of  array  to  distinguish  them:  but  what 
should  we  say  to  a  foolish  squire,  who  should  claim 
a  merit  from  dressing  up  his  tenantry  in  red  jackets, 
that  never  were  to  be  marshalled — never  to  take 
the  field? — She  even  wished  that  whist  were  more 
simple  than  it  is;  and,  in  my  mind,  would  have 
66 


MRS.  BATTLE'S  OPINIONS  ON  WHIST 

stripped  it  of  some  appendages,  which,  in  the  state 
of  human  frailty,  may  be  venially,  and  even  com- 
mendably,  allowed  of.  She  saw  no  reason  for  the 
deciding  of  the  trump  by  the  turn  of  the  card.  Why 
not  one  suit  always  trumps? — Why  two  colours, 
when  the  mark  of  the  suit  would  have  sufficiently 
distinguished  them  without  it? 

"But  the  eye,  my  dear  madam,  is  agreeably  re- 
freshed with  the  variety.  Man  is  not  a  creature  of 
pure  reason — he  must  have  his  senses  delightfully 
appealed  to.  We  see  it  in  Roman  Catholic  coun- 
tries, where  the  music  and  the  paintings  draw  in 
many  to  worship,  whom  your  quaker  spirit  of  un- 
sensualising  would  have  kept  out. — You,  yourself, 
have  a  pretty  collection  of  paintings — but  confess 
to  me,  whether,  walking  in  your  gallery  at  Sand- 
ham,  among  those  clear  A^andykes,  or  among  the 
Paul  Potters  in  the  ante-room,  you  ever  felt  your 
bosom  glow  with  an  elegant  dehght,  at  all  compar- 
able to  that  you  have  it  in  your  power  to  experience 
most  evenings  over  a  well-arranged  assortment  of 
the  court-cards  ? — the  pretty  antic  habits,  like  her- 
alds in  a  procession — the  gay  triumph-assuring 
scarlets — the  contrasting  deadly-killing  sables — the 
*  hoary  majesty  of  spades' — Pam  in  all  his  glory! — 

"All  these  might  be  dispensed  with;  and  with 
their  naked  names  upon  the  drab  pasteboard,  the 
game  might  go  on  very  well,  pictureless ;  but  the 
beauty  of  cards  would  be  extinguished  for  ever. 
Stripped  of  all  that  is  imagmative  in  them,  they 

67 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

must  degenerate  into  mere  gambling.  Imagine  a 
dull  deal  board,  or  drum  head,  to  spread  them  on, 
instead  of  that  nice  verdant  carpet  (next  to  na- 
ture's), fittest  arena  for  those  courtly  combatants  to 
play  their  gallant  jousts  and  turneys  in! — Exchange 
those  delicately-turned  ivory  markers— (work  of 
Chinese  artist,  unconscious  of  their  symbol, — or  as 
profanely  slighting  their  true  application  as  the  ar- 
rantest  Ephesian  journeyman  that  turned  out  those 
little  shrines  for  the  goddess) — exchange  them  for 
little  bits  of  leather  (our  ancestors'  money),  or  chalk 
and  a  slate!" — 

The  old  lady,  with  a  smile,  confessed  the  sound- 
ness of  my  logic;  and  to  her  approbation  of  my 
arguments  on  her  favourite  topic  that  evening  I 
have  always  fancied  myself  indebted  for  the  legacy 
of  a  curious  cribbage-board,  made  of  the  finest  Si- 
enna marble,  which  her  maternal  uncle  (old  Walter 
Plumer,  whom  I  have  elsewhere  celebrated)  brought 
with  him  from  Florence: — this,  and  a  trifle  of  five 
hundred  pounds,  came  to  me  at  her  death. 

The  former  bequest  (which  I  do  not  least  value) 
I  have  kept  with  religious  care;  though  she  herself, 
to  confess  a  truth,  was  never  greatly  taken  with 
cribbage.  It  was  an  essentially  vulgar  game,  I  have 
heard  her  say, — disputing  with  her  uncle,  who  was 
very  partial  to  it.  She  could  never  heartily  bring 
her  mouth  to  pronounce  "G^o,"  or  ''That's  a  go'' 
She  called  it  an  ungrammatical  game.  The  pegging 
teased  her.  I  once  knew  her  to  forfeit  a  rubber  (a 
68 


MRS.  BATTLE'S  OPINIONS  ON  WHIST 

five-dollar  stake)  because  she  would  not  take  advan- 
tage of  the  turn-up  knave,  which  would  have  given 
it  her,  but  which  she  must  have  claimed  by  the 
disgraceful  tenure  of  declaring  ''tvco  for  his  heehr 
There  is  something  extremely  genteel  in  this  sort  of 
self-denial.  Sarah  Battle  was  a  gentlewoman  born. 

Piquet  she  held  the  best  game  at  the  cards  for 
two  persons,  though  she  would  ridicule  the  pedantry 
of  the  terms — such  as  pique — repique — the  capot 
— they  savoured  (she  thought)  of  affectation.  But 
games  for  two,  or  even  three,  she  never  greatly 
cared  for.  She  loved  the  quadrate,  or  square.  She 
would  argue  thus: — Cards  are  warfare:  the  ends 
are  gain,  with  glory.  But  cards  are  war,  in  disguise 
of  a  sport:  when  single  adversaries  encounter,  the 
ends  proposed  are  too  palpable.  By  themselves,  it 
is  too  close  a  fight;  with  spectators,  it  is  not  much 
bettered.  No  looker-on  can  be  interested,  except  for 
a  bet,  and  then  it  is  a  mere  affair  of  money;  he 
cares  not  for  your  luck  sympathetically,  or  for  your 
play. — Three  are  still  worse;  a  mere  naked  war  of 
every  man  against  every  man,  as  in  cribbage,  with- 
out league  or  alliance ;  or  a  rotation  of  petty  and 
contradictory  interests,  a  succession  of  heartless 
leagues,  and  not  much  more  hearty  infractions  of 
them,  as  in  tradrille. — But  in  square  games  {she 
meant  whist),  all  that  is  possible  to  be  attained  in 
card-playing  is  accomplished.  There  are  the  incen- 
tives of  profit  with  honour,  common  to  every  spe- 
cies— though  the  latter  can  be  but  very  imperfectly 

69 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

enjoyed  in  those  other  games,  where  the  spectator 
is  only  feebly  a  participator.  But  the  parties  in 
whist  are  spectators  and  principals  too.  They  are 
a  theatre  to  themselves,  and  a  looker-on  is  not 
wanted.  He  is  rather  worse  than  nothing,  and  an 
impertinence.  Whist  abhors  neutrality,  or  interests 
beyond  its  sphere.  You  glory  in  some  surprising 
stroke  of  skill  or  fortune,  not  because  a  cold — or 
even  an  interested — bystander  witnesses  it,  but  be- 
cause your  pa?~tner  sympathises  in  the  contingency. 
You  win  for  two.  You  triumph  for  two.  Two  are  ex- 
alted. Two  again  are  mortified;  which  divides  their 
disgrace,  as  the  conjunction  doubles  (by  taking  off 
the  invidiousness)  your  glories.  Two  losing  to  two 
are  better  reconciled,  than  one  to  one  in  that  close 
butchery.  The  hostile  feeling  is  weakened  by  multi- 
plying the  channels.  War  becomes  a  civil  game.  By 
such  reasonings  as  these  the  old  lady  was  accus- 
tomed to  defend  her  favourite  pastime. 

No  inducement  could  ever  prevail  upon  her  to 
play  at  any  game,  where  chance  entered  into  the 
composition,  for  nothing.  Chance,  she  would  argue 
— and  here  again,  admire  the  subtlety  of  her  con- 
clusion;— chance  is  nothing,  but  where  something 
else  depends  upon  it.  It  is  obvious,  that  cannot  be 
glory.  What  rational  cause  of  exultation  could  it 
give  to  a  man  to  turn  up  size  ace  a  hundred  times 
together  by  himself?  or  before  spectators,  where  no 
stake  was  depending? — Make  a  lottery  of  a  hun- 
dred thousand  tickets  with  but  one  fortunate  num- 
70 


MRS.  BATTLE'S  OPINIONS  ON  WHIST 

ber — and  what  possible  principle  of  our  nature, 
except  stupid  wonderment,  could  it  gratify  to  gain 
that  number  as  many  times  successively  without  a 
prize?  Therefore  she  disliked  the  mixture  of  chance 
in  backgammon,  where  it  was  not  played  for  money. 
She  called  it  foolish,  and  those  people  idiots,  who 
were  taken  with  a  lucky  hit  under  such  circum- 
stances. Games  of  pure  skill  were  as  Httle  to  her 
fancy.  Played  for  a  stake,  they  were  a  mere  system 
of  over-reaching.  Played  for  glory,  they  were  a 
mere  setting  of  one  man's  wit, — his  memory,  or 
combination-faculty  rather — against  another's;  like 
a  mock-engagement  at  a  review,  bloodless  and 
profitless.  She  could  not  conceive  a  game  wanting 
the  spritely  infusion  of  chance,  the  handsome  ex- 
cuses of  good  fortune.  Two  people  playing  at  chess 
in  a  corner  of  a  room,  whilst  whist  was  stirring  in 
the  centre,  would  inspire  her  with  insufferable  hor- 
ror and  ennui.  Those  well-cut  similitudes  of  Castles 
and  Knights,  the  magery  of  the  board,  she  would 
argue  (and  I  think  in  this  case  justly),  were  entirely 
misplaced  and  senseless.  Those  hard-head  contests 
can  in  no  instance  ally  with  the  fancy.  They  reject 
form  and  colour.  A  pencil  and  dry  slate  (she  used 
to  say)  were  the  proper  arena  for  such  combatants. 
To  those  puny  objectors  against  cards,  as  nurtur- 
ing the  bad  passions,  she  would  retort,  that  man  is 
a  gaming  animal.  He  must  be  always  trying  to  get 
the  better  in  something  or  other: — that  this  passion 
can  scarcely  be  more  safely  expended  than  upon  a 


THE  ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

game  at  cards :  that  cards  are  a  temporary  illusion ; 
in  truth,  a  mere  drama;  for  we  do  hut  play  at  being 
mightily  concerned,  where  a  few  idle  shillings  are 
at  stake,  yet,  during  the  illusion,  we  are  as  mightily 
concerned  as  those  whose  stake  is  crowns  and  king- 
doms. They  are  a  sort  of  dream-fighting;  much  ado; 
great  battling,  and  little  bloodshed ;  mighty  means 
for  disproportioned  ends;  quite  as  diverting,  and  a 
great  deal  more  innoxious,  than  many  of  those  more 
serious  games  of  life,  which  men  play  without  es- 
teeming them  to  be  such. 

With  great  deference  to  the  old  lady's  judgment 
in  these  matters,  I  think  I  have  experienced  some 
moments  in  my  life  when  playing  at  cards  for 
nothing  has  even  been  agreeable.  When  I  am  in 
sickness,  or  not  in  the  best  spirits,  I  sometimes  call 
for  the  cards,  and  play  a  game  at  piquet  ybr  love 
with  my  cousin  Bridget— Bridget  Elia. 

I  grant  there  is  something  sneaking  in  it;  but 
with  a  tooth-ache,  or  a  sprained  ankle, — when  you 
are  subdued  and  humble, — you  are  glad  to  put  up 
with  an  inferior  spring  of  action. 

There  is  such  a  thing  in  nature,  I  am  convinced,, 
as  sick  whist. 

I  grant  it  is  not  the  highest  style  of  man — I 
deprecate  the  manes  of  Sarah  Battle — she  lives  not, 
alas!  to  whom  I  should  apologise. 

At  such  times,  those  te?^i?is  which  my  old  friend 
objected  to,  come  in  as  something  admissible — I 
love  to  get  a  tierce  or  a  quatorze,  though  they  mean 
72 


MRS.  BATTLE'S  OPINIONS  ON  WHIST 

nothing.  I  am  subdued  to  an  inferior  interest.  Those 
shadows  of  winning  amuse  me. 

That  last  game  I  had  with  my  sweet  cousin  (I 
capotted  her) — (dare  I  tell  thee,  how  foolish  I  am?) 
— I  wished  it  might  have  lasted  for  ever,  though 
we  gained  nothing,  and  lost  nothing,  though  it  was 
a  mere  shade  of  play:  I  would  be  content  to  go  on 
in  that  idle  folly  for  ever.  The  pipkin  should  be  ever 
boiling,  that  was  to  prepare  the  gentle  lenitive  to 
my  foot,  which  Bridget  was  doomed  to  apply  after 
the  game  was  over:  and,  as  I  do  not  much  relish 
appliances,  there  it  should  ever  bubble.  Bridget  and 
I  should  be  ever  playing. 


78 


A  CHAPTER  ON   EARS 

I  HAVE  no  ear.— 
Mistake  me  not,  Reader — nor  imagine  that  I 
am  by  nature  destitute  of  those  exterior  twin  ap- 
pendages, hanging  ornaments,  and  (architecturally 
speaking)  handsome  volutes  to  the  human  capital. 
Better  my  mother  had  never  borne  me. — I  am,  I 
think,  rather  delicately  than  copiously  provided 
with  those  conduits;  and  I  feel  no  disposition  to 
envy  the  mule  for  his  plenty,  or  the  mole  for  her 
exactness,  in  those  ingenious  labyrinthine  inlets — 
those  indispensable  side-intelligencers. 

Neither  have  I  incurred,  or  done  anything  to  in- 
cur, with  Defoe,  that  hideous  disfigurement,  which 
constrained  him  to  draw  upon  assurance — to  feel 
"quite  unabashed,"^  and  at  ease  upon  that  article. 
I  was  never,  I  thank  my  stars,  in  the  pillory;  nor, 
if  I  read  them  aright,  is  it  within  the  compass  of 
my  destiny,  that  I  ever  should  be. 

When  therefore  I  say  that  I  have  no  ear,  you  will 
understand  me  to  mean— ^or  music.  To  say  that  this 
heart  never  melted  at  the  concord  of  sweet  sounds, 
would  be  a  foul  self-libel.  "  Water  parted  from  the 
sea"  never  fails  to  move  it  strangely.  So  does  ^'In 
infancy.''  But  they  were  used  to  be  sung  at  her  harp- 
sichord (the  old-fashioned  instrument  in  vogue  in 
those  days)  by  a  gentlewoman — the  gentlest,  sure, 

\}  "Earless  on  high  stood^  unabashed,  Defoe." — Dunciad.^ 

74 


A   CHAPTER   ON   EARS 

that  ever  merited  the  appellation — the  sweetest — 

why  should  I  hesitate  to  name  Mrs.  S ,  once  the 

blooming  Fanny  Weatheral  of  the  Temple — who 
had  power  to  thrill  the  soul  of  Elia,  small  imp  as  he 
was,  even  in  his  long  coats;  and  to  make  him  glow, 
tremble,  and  blush  with  a  passion,  that  not  faintly 
indicated  the  dayspring  of  that  absorbing  sentiment 
which  was  afterwards  destined  to  overwhelm  and 
subdue  his  nature  quite  for  Alice  W n. 

I  even  think  that  sentimentally  I  am  disposed  to 
harmony.  But  organically  I  am  incapable  of  a  tune. 
I  have  been  practising  ''God  save  the  King''  all  my 
life;  whisthng  and  humming  of  it  over  to  myself 
in  soUtary  corners;  and  am  not  yet  arrived,  they 
tell  me,  within  many  quavers  of  it.  Yet  hath  the 
loyalty  of  Elia  never  been  impeached. 

I  am  not  without  suspicion,  that  I  have  an  un- 
developed faculty  of  music  within  me.  For  thrum- 
ming, in  my  wild  way,  on  my  friend  A.'s  piano,  the 
other  morning,  while  he  was  engaged  in  an  adjoin- 
ing parlour, — on  his  return  he  was  pleased  to  say, 
*'he  thought  it  could  not  be  the  maid!''  On  his  first 
surprise  at  hearing  the  keys  touched  in  somewhat 
an  airy  and  masterful  way,  not  dreaming  of  me, 
his  suspicions  had  lighted  on  Jenny.  But  a  grace, 
snatched  from  a  superior  refinement,  soon  con- 
vinced him  that  some  being — technically  perhaps 
deficient,  but  higher  informed  from  a  principle  com- 
mon to  all  the  fine  arts — had  swayed  the  keys  to  a 
mood  which  Jenny,  with  all  her  (less  cultivated)  en- 

75 


THE   ESSAYS    OF   ELIA 

thusiasm,  could  never  have  elicited  from  them.  I 
mention  this  as  a  proof  of  my  friend's  penetration, 
and  not  with  any  view  of  disparaging  Jenny. 

Scientifically  I  could  never  be  made  to  under- 
stand (yet  have  I  taken  some  pains)  what  a  note 
in  music  is;  or  how  one  note  should  differ  from 
another.  Much  less  in  voices  can  I  distinguish  a  so- 
prano from  a  tenor.  Only  sometimes  the  thorough- 
bass I  contrive  to  guess  at,  from  its  being  superemi- 
nently harsh  and  disagreeable.  I  tremble,  however, 
for  my  misapplication  of  the  simplest  terms  of  that 
which  I  disclaim.  While  I  profess  my  ignorance,  I 
scarce  know  what  to  say  I  am  ignorant  of.  I  hate, 
perhaps,  by  misnomers.  Sostenuto  and  adagio  stand 
in  the  like  relation  of  obscurity  to  me;  and  Sol,  Fa, 
Mi,  Re,  is  as  conjuring  as  Baralipton. 

It  is  hard  to  stand  alone  in  an  age  like  this, — 
(constituted  to  the  quick  and  critical  perception  of 
all  harmonious  combinations,  I  verily  believe,  be- 
yond all  preceding  ages,  since  Jubal  stumbled  upon 
the  gamut,)  to  remain,  as  it  were,  singly  unimpres- 
sible  to  the  magic  influences  of  an  art,  which  is  said 
to  have  such  an  especial  stroke  at  soothing,  elevat- 
ing, and  refining  the  passions. — Yet,  rather  than 
break  the  candid  current  of  my  confessions,  I  must 
avow  to  you  that  I  have  received  a  great  deal  more 
pain  than  pleasure  from  this  so  cried-up  faculty. 

I  am  constitutionally  susceptible  of  noises.  A  car- 
penter's hammer,  in  a  warm  summer  noon,  will  fret 
me  into  more  than  midsummer  madness.  But  those 
76 


A   CHAPTER   ON   EARS 

unconnected,  unset  sounds,  are  nothing  to  the  mea- 
sured maUce  of  music.  The  ear  is  passive  to  those 
single  strokes;  willingly  enduring  stripes,  while  it 
hath  no  task  to  con.  To  music  it  cannot  be  passive. 
It  will  strive — mine  at  least  will — spite  of  its  in- 
aptitude, to  thrid  the  maze;  like  an  unskilled  eye 
painfully  poring  upon  hieroglyphics.  I  have  sat 
through  an  Italian  Opera,  till,  for  sheer  pain,  and 
inexpHcable  anguish,  I  have  rushed  out  into  the 
noisiest  places  of  the  crowded  streets,  to  solace 
myself  with  sounds,  which  I  was  not  obliged  to 
follow,  and  get  rid  of  the  distracting  torment  of 
endless,  fruitless,  barren  attention !  I  take  refuge  in 
the  unpretending  assemblage  of  honest  common- 
life  sounds; — and  the  purgatory  of  the  Enraged 
Musician  becomes  my  paradise. 

I  have  sat  at  an  Oratorio  (that  profanation  of  the 
purposes  of  the  cheerful  playhouse)  watching  the 
faces  of  the  auditory  in  the  pit  (what  a  contrast 
to  Hogarth's  Laughing  Audience!)  immoveable,  or 
affecting  some  faint  emotion — till  (as  some  have 
said,  that  our  occupations  in  the  next  world  will  be 
but  a  shadow  of  what  delighted  us  in  this)  I  have 
imagined  myself  in  some  cold  Theatre  in  Hades, 
where  some  of  the  forms  of  the  earthly  one  should 
be  kept  up,  with  none  of  the  enjoyment;  or  like  that 

—  Party  in  a  parlour 
All  silent,  and  all  damned. 

Above  all,  those  insufferable  concertos,  and  pieces 

77 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

of  music,  as  they  are  called,  do  plague  and  embitter 
my  apprehension. — Words  are  something;  but  to 
be  exposed  to  an  endless  battery  of  mere  sounds; 
to  be  long  a-dying;  to  lie  stretched  upon  a  rack  of 
roses;  to  keep  up  languor  by  unintermitted  effort; 
to  pile  honey  upon  sugar,  and  sugar  upon  honey, 
to  an  interminable  tedious  sweetness;  to  fill  up 
sound  with  feeling,  and  strain  ideas  to  keep  pace 
with  it;  to  gaze  on  empty  frames,  and  be  forced  to 
make  the  pictures  for  yourself;  to  read  a  book,  all 
stops,  and  be  obliged  to  supply  the  verbal  matter; 
to  invent  extempore  tragedies  to  answer  to  the 
vague  gestures  of  an  inexplicable  rambling  mime 
— these  are  faint  shadows  of  what  I  have  under- 
gone from  a  series  of  the  ablest-executed  pieces  of 
this  empty  instrumental  7?iusic. 

I  deny  not,  that  in  the  opening  of  a  concert, 
I  have  experienced  something  vastly  lulling  and 
agreeable: — afterwards  folio weth  the  languor  and 
the  oppression.  Like  that  disappointing  book  in 
Patmos;  or,  like  the  comings  on  of  melancholy,  de- 
scribed by  Burton,  doth  music  make  her  first  insinu- 
ating approaches: — "Most  pleasant  it  is  to  such  as 
are  melancholy  given,  to  walk  alone  in  some  soli- 
tary grove,  betwixt  wood  and  water,  by  some  brook 
side,  and  to  meditate  upon  some  delightsome  and 
pleasant  subject,  which  shall  affect  him  most,  ama- 
bilis  insania,  and  mentis  gi^atissimus  error.  A  most 
incomparable  delight  to  build  castles  in  the  air,  to 
go  smiling  to  themselves,  acting  an  infinite  variety 
78 


A  CHAPTER   ON  EARS 

of  parts,  which  they  suppose,  and  strongly  imagine, 
they  act,  or  that  they  see  done. — So  dehghtsome 
these  toys  at  first,  they  could  spend  whole  days 
and  nights  without  sleep,  even  whole  years  in  such 
contemplations,  and  fantastical  meditations,  which 
are  like  so  many  dreams,  and  will  hardly  be  drawn 
from  them — winding  and  unwinding  themselves  as 
so  many  clocks,  and  still  pleasing  their  humours, 
until  at  the  last  the  scene  turns  upon  a  sudden, 
and  they  being  now  habitated  to  such  meditations 
and  solitary  places,  can  endure  no  company,  can 
think  of  nothing  but  harsh  and  distasteful  subjects. 
Fear,  sorrow,  suspicion,  subrusticus  pudor,  discon- 
tent, cares,  and  weariness  of  life,  surprise  them  on 
a  sudden,  and  they  can  think  of  nothing  else :  con- 
tinually suspecting,  no  sooner  are  their  eyes  open, 
but  this  infernal  plague  of  melancholy  seizeth  on 
them,  and  terrifies  their  souls,  representing  some 
dismal  object  to  their  minds;  which  now,  by  no 
means,  no  labour,  no  persuasions,  they  can  avoid, 
they  cannot  be  rid  of,  they  cannot  resist." 

Something  like  this  "scene  turning"  I  have  ex- 
perienced at  the  evening  parties,  at  the  house  of 

my  good  Catholic  friend  Nov ;  who,  by  the  aid 

of  a  capital  organ,  himself  the  most  finished  of 
players,  converts  his  drawing-room  into  a  chapel, 
his  week  days  into  Sundays,  and  these  latter  into 
minor  heavens.^ 

^  I  have  been  there,  and  still  would  go — 
'Tis  like  a  little  heaven  below.  —  Dr.  Watts. 

79 


THE   ESSAYS    OF   ELIA 

When  my  friend  commences  upon  one  of  those 
solemn  anthems,  which  peradventure  struck  upon 
my  heedless  ear,  rambling  in  the  side  aisles  of  the 
dim  Abbey,  some  five-and-thirty  years  since,  wak- 
ing a  new  sense,  and  putting  a  soul  of  old  religion 
into  my  young  apprehension — (whether  it  be  that, 
in  which  the  Psalmist,  weary  of  the  persecutions  of 
bad  men,  wisheth  to  himself  dove's  wings — or  that 
other  which,  with  a  like  measure  of  sobriety  and 
pathos,  inquireth  by  what  means  the  young  man 
shall  best  cleanse  his  mind) — a  holy  calm  pervadeth 
me. — I  am  for  the  time 

rapt  above  earth. 

And  possess  joys  not  promised  at  my  birth. 

But  when  this  master  of  the  spell,  not  content  to 
have  laid  a  soul  prostrate,  goes  on,  in  his  power,  to 
inflict  more  bliss  than  lies  in  her  capacity  to  receive 
— impatient  to  overcome  her  "earthly"  with  his 
"heavenly," — still  pouring  in,  for  protracted  hours, 
fresh  waves  and  fresh  from  the  sea  of  sound,  or 
from  that  inexhausted  German  ocean,  above  which, 
in  triumphant  progress,  dolphin-seated,  ride  those 
Arions  Haydn  and  Mozart,  with  their  attendant 
Tritons,  Bach,  Beethoven,  and  a  countless  tribe, 
whom  to  attempt  to  reckon  up  would  but  plunge 
me  again  in  the  deeps, —  I  stagger  under  the  weight 
of  harmony,  reeling  to  and  fro  at  my  wits'  end; — 
clouds,  as  of  frankincense,  oppress  me — priests,  al- 
tars, censers,  dazzle  before  me — the  genius  of  his 
80 


A   CHAPTER   ON   EARS 

religion  hath  me  in  her  toils — a  shadowy  triple 
tiara  invests  the  brow  of  my  friend,  late  so  naked, 
so  ingenuous — he  is  Pope, — and  by  him  sits,  Hke 
as  in  the  anomaly  of  dreams,  a  she-Pope  too, — 
tri-coroneted  like  himself! — I  am  converted,  and 
yet  a  Protestant; — at  once  malleus  hereticorum^  and 
myself  grand  heresiarch:  or  three  heresies  centre  in 
my  person: — I  am  Marcion,  Ebion,  and  Cerinthus 
— Gog  and  Magog — what  not? — till  the  coming  in 
of  the  friendly  supper-tray  dissipates  the  figment, 
and  a  draught  of  true  Lutheran  beer  (in  which 
chiefly  my  friend  shows  himself  no  bigot)  at  once 
reconciles  me  to  the  rationalities  of  a  purer  faith; 
and  restores  to  me  the  genuine  unterrifying  aspects 
of  my  pleasant-countenanced  host  and  hostess. 


81 


ALL  FOOLS'  DAY 

THE  compliments  of  the  season  to  my  worthy 
masters,  and  a  merry  first  of  April  to  us  all  1 

Many  happy  returns  of  this  day  to  you — and 
you — and  you.  Sir — nay,  never  frown,  man,  nor 
put  a  long  face  upon  the  matter.  Do  not  we 
know  one  another?  what  need  of  ceremony  among 
friends?  we  have  all  a  touch  of  that  same — you  un- 
derstand me — a  speck  of  the  motley.  Beshrew  the 
man  who  on  such  a  day  as  this,  the  general  festival^ 
should  affect  to  stand  aloof.  I  am  none  of  those 
sneakers.  I  am  free  of  the  corporation,  and  care  not 
who  knows  it.  He  that  meets  me  in  the  forest  to- 
day, shall  meet  with  no  wise-acre,  I  can  tell  him. 
Stultus  sum.  Translate  me  that,  and  take  the  mean- 
ing of  it  to  yourself  for  your  pains.  What,  man,  we 
have  four  quarters  of  the  globe  on  our  side,  at  the 
least  computation. 

Fill  us  a  cup  of  that  sparkling  gooseberry — we 
will  drink  no  wise,  melancholy,  politic  port  on  this 
day — and  let  us  troll  the  catch  of  Amiens — due  ad 
me — due  ad  me — how  goes  it? 

Here  shall  he  see 
Gross  fools  as  he. 

Now  would  I  give  a  trifle  to  know,  historically 
and  authentically,  who  was  the  greatest  fool  that 
ever  lived.  I  would  certainly  give  him  in  a  bumper. 


ALL   FOOLS'   DAY 

Marry,  of  the  present  breed,  I  think  I  could  with- 
out much  difficulty  name  you  the  party. 

Remove  your  cap  a  little  further,  if  you  please: 
it  hides  my  bauble.  And  now  each  man  bestride  his 
hobby,  and  dust  away  his  bells  to  what  tune  he 
pleases.  I  will  give  you,  for  my  part, 

— The  crazy  old  church  clock. 
And  the  bewildered  chimes. 

Good  master  Empedocles,^  you  are  welcome.  It 
is  long  since  you  went  a  salamander-gathering 
down  ^tna.  Worse  than  sarnphire-picking  by  some 
odds.  'T  is  a  mercy  your  worship  did  not  singe  your 
mustachios. 

Ha!  Cleombrotus!^  and  what  salads  in  faith  did 
you  light  upon  at  the  bottom  of  the  Mediterra- 
nean ?  You  were  founder,  I  take  it,  of  the  disinter- 
ested sect  of  the  Calenturists. 

Gebir,  my  old  free-mason,  and  prince  of  plas- 
terers at  Babel,^  bring  in  your  trowel,  most  Ancient 
Grand!  You  have  claim  to  a  seat  here  at  my  right 
hand,  as  patron  of  the  stammerers.  You  left  your 
work,  if  I  remember  Herodotus  correctly,  at  eight 
hundred  million  toises,  or  thereabout,  above  the 
level  of  the  sea.  Bless  us,  what  a  long  bell  you 

[^   He  who,  to  be  deem'd 

A  god,  leap'd  fondly  into  Etna  flames — ] 

P   He  who,  to  enjoy 

Plato's  Elysium,  leap'd  into  the  sea — ] 

P  The  builders  next  of  Babel  on  the  plain 
Of  Senaar — ] 

8S 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

must  have  pulled,  to  call  your  top  workmen  to 
their  nuncheon  on  the  low  grounds  of  Senaar.  Or 
did  you  send  up  your  garhc  and  onions  by  a  rocket? 
I  am  a  rogue  if  1  am  not  ashamed  to  show  you  our 
Monument  on  Fish-street  Hill,  after  your  altitudes. 
Yet  we  think  it  somewhat. 

What,  the  magnanimous  Alexander  in  tears? — 
cry,  baby,  put  its  finger  in  its  eye,  it  shall  have 
another  globe,  round  as  an  orange,  pretty  moppet  I 

Mister  Adams 'odso,  I  honour  your  coat — 

pray  do  us  the  favour  to  read  to  us  that  sermon, 
which  you  lent  to  Mistress  Slipslop — the  twenty 
and  second  in  your  portmanteau  there — on  Female 
Incontinence — the  same — it  will  come  in  most  ir- 
relevantly and  impertinently  seasonable  to  the  time 
of  the  day. 

Good  Master  Raymund  Lully,  you  look  wise. 
Pray  correct  that  error. 

Duns,  spare  your  definitions.  I  must  fine  you  a 
bumper,  or  a  paradox.  We  will  have  nothing  said 
or  done  syllogistically  this  day.  Remove  those  logi- 
cal forms,  waiter,  that  no  gentleman  break  the 
tender  shins  of  his  apprehension  stumbling  across 
them. 

Master  Stephen,  you  are  late. — Ha!  Cokes,  is  it 
you? — Aguecheek,  my  dear  knight,  let  me  pay  my 
devoir  to  you. — Master  Shallow,  your  worship's 
poor  servant  to  command. — Master  Silence,  I  will 
use  few  words  with  you. — Slender,  it  shall  go  hard 
if  I  edge  not  you  in  somewhere. — You  six  will  en- 
84 


ALL   FOOLS'   DAY 

gross  all  the  poor  wit  of  the  company  to-day. — I 
know  it,  I  know  it. 

Ha!   honest  R ,   my  fine  old    Librarian  of 

Ludgate,  time  out  of  mind,  art  thou  here  again? 
Bless  thy  doublet,  it  is  not  over-new,  threadbare 
as  thy  stories: — what  dost  thou  flitting  about  the 
world  at  this  rate? — Thy  customers  are  extinct, 
defunct,  bed-rid,  have  ceased  to  read  long  ago. — 
Thou  goest  still  among  them,  seeing  if,  peradven- 
ture,  thou  canst  hawk  a  volume  or  two. — Good 
Granville  S ,  thy  last  patron,  is  flown. 

King  Pandion,  he  is  dead. 

All  thy  friends  are  lapt  in  lead. — 

Nevertheless,  noble  R -,  come  in,  and  take 

your  seat  here,  between  Armado  and  Quisada;  for 
in  true  courtesy,  in  gravity,  in  fantastic  smihng  to 
thyself,  in  courteous  smiling  upon  others,  in  the 
goodly  ornature  of  well-apparelled  speech,  and  the 
commendation  of  wise  sentences,  thou  art  nothing 
inferior  to  those  accomplished  Dons  of  Spain.  The 
spirit  of  chivalry  forsake  me  for  ever,  when  I  for- 
get thy  singing  the  song  of  Macheath,  which  de- 
clares that  he  might  be  happy  with  either,  situated 
between  those  two  ancient  spinsters — when  I  forget 
the  inimitable  formal  love  which  thou  didst  make, 
turning  now  to  the  one,  and  now  to  the  other,  with 
that  Malvolian  smile — as  if  Cervantes,  not  Gay, 
had  written  it  for  his  hero;  and  as  if  thousands  of 
periods  must  revolve,  before  the  mirror  of  courtesy 

85 


THE   ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

could  have  given  his  invidious  preference  between 
a  pair  of  so  goodly-propertied  and  meritorious-equal 
damsels.  *  *  *  * 

To  descend  from  these  altitudes,  and  not  to  pro- 
tract our  Fools'  Banquet  beyond  its  appropriate 
day, — for  I  fear  the  second  of  April  is  not  many 
hours  distant — in  sober  verity  I  will  confess  a  truth 
to  thee.  Reader.  I  love  a  Fool — as  naturally  as  if  I 
were  of  kith  and  kin  to  him.  When  a  child,  with 
child-like  apprehensions,  that  dived  not  below  the 
surface  of  the  matter,  I  read  those  Parables — not 
guessing  at  their  involved  wisdom — I  had  more 
yearnings  towards  that  simple  architect,  that  built 
his  house  upon  the  sand,  than  I  entertained  for  his 
more  cautious  neighbour:  I  grudged  at  the  hard 
censure  pronounced  upon  the  quiet  soul  that  kept 
his  talent;  and — prizing  their  simplicity  beyond  the 
more  provident,  and,  to  my  apprehension,  some- 
what unfeminine  wariness  of  their  competitors — I 
felt  a  kindliness,  that  almost  amounted  to  a  tendre» 
for  those  five  thoughtless  virgins.  —  I  have  never 
made  an  acquaintance  since,  that  lasted :  or  a  friend- 
ship, that  answered;  with  any  that  had  not  some 
tincture  of  the  absurd  in  their  characters.  I  vener- 
ate an  honest  obUquity  of  understanding.  The  more 
laughable  blunders  a  man  shall  commit  in  your 
company,  the  more  tests  he  giveth  you,  that  he 
will  not  betray  or  overreach  you.  I  love  the  safety, 
which  a  palpable  hallucination  warrants;  the  secu- 
rity, which  a  word  out  of  season  ratifies.  And  take 
86 


ALL  FOOLS'   DAY 

my  word  for  this,  Reader,  and  say  a  fool  told  it 
you,  if  you  please,  that  he  who  hath  not  a  dram  of 
folly  in  his  mixture,  hath  pounds  of  much  worse 
matter  in  his  composition.  It  is  observed,  that  "the 
fooUsher  the  fowl  or  fish, — woodcocks, — dotterels 
— cods'-heads,  etc.,  the  finer  the  flesh  thereof,"  and 
what  are  commonly  the  world's  received  fools  but 
such  whereof  the  world  is  not  worthy?  and  what 
have  been  some  of  the  kindliest  patterns  of  our 
species,  but  so  many  darlings  of  absurdity,  minions 
of  the  goddess,  and  her  white  boys? — Reader,  if 
you  wrest  my  words  beyond  their  fair  construction, 
it  is  you,  and  not  I,  that  are  the  April  Fool. 


87 


A  QUAKERS'  MEETING 

Still-born  Silence !  thou  that  art 

Flood-gate  of  the  deeper  heart! 

Offspring  of  a  heavenly  kind! 

Frost  o'  the  mouth,  and  thaw  o'  the  mindl 

Secrecy's  confidant,  and  he 

Who  makes  religion  mystery! 

Admiration's  speaking' st  tongue! 

Leave,  thy  desert  shades  among. 

Reverend  hermit's  hallow^'d  cells. 

Where  retired  devotion  dwells! 

With  thy  enthusiasms  come. 

Seize  our  tongues,  and  strike  us  dumb!* 

READER,  would'st  thou  know  what  true  peace 
and  quiet  mean;  would'st  thou  find  a  refuge 
from  the  noises  and  clamours  of  the  multitude; 
would'st  thou  enjoy  at  once  solitude  and  society; 
would'st  thou  possess  the  depth  of  thine  own  spirit 
in  stillness,  without  being  shut  out  from  the  con- 
solatory faces  of  thy  species ;  would'st  thou  be  alone 
and  yet  accompanied;  solitary,  yet  not  desolate; 
singular,  yet  not  without  some  to  keep  thee  in 
countenance;  a  unit  in  aggregate;  a  simple  in  com- 
posite:— come  with  me  into  a  Quakers'  Meeting. 

Dost  thou  love  silence  deep  as  that  "before  the 
winds  were  made"?  go  not  out  into  the  wilderness, 
descend  not  into  the  profundities  of  the  earth ;  shut 
not  up  thy  casements;  nor  pour  wax  into  the  little 

^  From  "Poems  of  all  sorts,"  by  Richard  Fleckno,  l653. 
88 


A   QUAKERS'  MEETING 

cells  of  thy  ears,  with  Mttle-faith'd  self-mistrusting 
Ulysses. — Retire  with  me  into  a  Quakers'  Meeting. 

For  a  man  to  refrain  even  from  good  words,  and 
to  hold  his  peace,  it  is  commendable ;  but  for  a  mul- 
titude it  is  great  mastery. 

What  is  the  stillness  of  the  desert  compared  with 
this  place?  what  the  uncommunicating  muteness 
of  fishes? — here  the  goddess  reigns  and  revels. — - 
"Boreas,  and  Cesias,  and  Argestes  loud,"  do  not 
with  their  interconfounding  uproars  more  augment 
the  brawl — nor  the  waves  of  the  blown  Baltic  with 
their  clubbed  sounds — than  their  opposite  (Silence 
her  sacred  self)  is  multiplied  and  rendered  more  in- 
tense by  numbers,  and  by  sympathy.  She  too  hath 
her  deeps,  that  call  unto  deeps.  Negation  itself  hath 
a  positive  more  and  less;  and  closed  eyes  would  seem 
to  obscure  the  great  obscurity  of  midnight. 

There  are  wounds  which  an  imperfect  solitude 
cannot  heal.  By  imperfect  I  mean  that  which  a 
man  enjoyeth  by  himself.  The  perfect  is  that  which 
he  can  sometimes  attain  in  crowds,  but  nowhere  so 
absolutely  as  in  a  Quakers'  Meeting. — Those  first 
hermits  did  certainly  understand  this  principle, 
when  they  retired  into  Egyptian  sohtudes,  not 
singly,  but  in  shoals,  to  enjoy  one  another's  want 
of  conversation.  The  Carthusian  is  bound  to  his 
brethren  by  this  agreeing  spirit  of  incommunica- 
tiveness.  In  secular  occasions,  what  so  pleasant  as 
to  be  reading  a  book  through  a  long  winter  even- 
ing, with  a  friend  sitting  by — say,  a  wife — he,  or 

89 


THE   ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

she,  too,  (if  that  be  probable,)  reading  another 
without  interruption,  or  oral  communication? — 
can  there  be  no  sympathy  without  the  gabble  of 
words? — away  with  this  inhuman,  shy,  single, 
shade-and-cavern-haunting  solitariness.  Give  me. 
Master  Zimmerman,  a  sympathetic  solitude. 

To  pace  alone  in  the  cloisters  or  side  aisles  of 
some  cathedral,  time-stricken ; 

Or  under  hanging  mountains. 
Or  by  the  fall  of  fountains ; 

is  but  a  vulgar  luxury,  compared  with  that  which 
those  enjoy  who  come  together  for  the  purposes  of 
more  complete,  abstracted  sohtude.  This  is  the  lone- 
Uness  "to  be  felt."— The  Abbey  Church  of  West- 
minster hath  nothing  so  solemn,  so  spirit  soothing, 
as  the  naked  walls  and  benches  of  a  Quakers' 
Meeting.  Here  are  no  tombs,  no  inscriptions. 

Sands,  ignoble  things, 

Dropt  from  the  ruined  sides  of  kings — 

but  here  is  something  which  throws  Antiquity 
herself  into  the  fore-ground — Silence — eldest  of 
things — language  of  old  Night — primitive  Dis- 
courser — to  which  the  insolent  decays  of  moulder- 
ing grandeur  have  but  arrived  by  a  violent,  and,  as 
we  may  say,  unnatural  progression. 

How  reverend  is  the  view  of  these  hushed  heads. 
Looking  tranquillity! 

Nothing-plotting,  nought-caballing,  unmischiev- 
90 


A   QUAKERS'   MEETING 

ous  synod!  convocation  without  intrigue!  parlia- 
ment without  debate!  what  a  lesson  dost  thou  read 
to  council,  and  to  consistory! — if  my  pen  treat  of 
you  lightly — as  haply  it  will  wander — yet  my  spirit 
hath  gravely  felt  the  wisdom  of  your  custom,  when, 
sitting  among  you  in  deepest  peace,  which  some 
out-welling  tears  would  rather  confirm  than  dis- 
turb, I  have  reverted  to  the  times  of  your  begin- 
nings, and  the  sowings  of  the  seed  by  Fox  and 
Dewesbury. — I  have  witnessed  that  which  brought 
before  my  eyes  your  heroic  tranquillity,  inflexible 
to  the  rude  jests  and  serious  violences  of  the  inso- 
lent soldiery,  republican  or  royalist,  sent  to  molest 
you — for  ye  sate  betwixt  the  fires  of  two  persecu- 
tions, the  outcast  and  ofFscouring  of  church  and 
presbytery. — I  have  seen  the  reeling  sea-ruflftan, 
who  had  wandered  into  your  receptacle  with  the 
avowed  intention  of  disturbing  your  quiet,  from  the 
very  spirit  of  the  place  receive  in  a  moment  a  new 
heart,  and  presently  sit  among  ye  as  a  lamb  amidst 
lambs.  And  I  remember  Penn  before  his  accusers, 
and  Fox  in  the  bail  dock,  where  he  was  lifted  up 
in  spirit,  as  he  tells  us,  and  "the  Judge  and  the  Jury 
became  as  dead  men  under  his  feet." 

Reader,  if  you  are  not  acquainted  with  it,  I  would 
recommend  to  you,  above  all  church-narratives,  to 
read  SeweFs  History  of  the  Quakers.  It  is  in  folio, 
and  is  the  abstract  of  the  journals  of  Fox  and  the 
primitive  Friends.  It  is  far  more  edifying  and  af- 
fecting than  anything  you  will  read  of  Wesley  and 

91 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

his  colleagues.  Here  is  nothing  to  stagger  you,  noth- 
ing to  make  you  mistrust,  no  suspicion  of  alloy,  no 
drop  or  dreg  of  the  worldly  or  ambitious  spirit.  You 
will  here  read  the  true  story  of  that  much-injured, 
ridiculed  man  (who  perhaps  hath  been  a  byword  in 
your  mouth) — James  Naylor:  what  dreadful  suffer- 
ings, with  what  patience,  he  endured,  even  to  the 
boring  through  of  his  tongue  with  red-hot  irons, 
without  a  murmur ;  and  with  what  strength  of  mind, 
when  the  delusion  he  had  fallen  into,  which  they 
stigmatised  for  blasphemy,  had  given  way  to  clearer 
thoughts,  he  could  renounce  his  error,  in  a  strain  of 
the  beautifullest  humility,  yet  keep  his  first  grounds, 
and  be  a  Quaker  still! — so  different  from  the  prac- 
tice of  your  common  converts  from  enthusiasm, 
who,  when  they  apostatize,  apostatize  all,  and  think 
they  can  never  get  far  enough  from  the  society  of 
their  former  errors,  even  to  the  renunciation  of  some 
saving  truths,  with  which  they  had  been  mingled, 
not  implicated. 

Get  the  writings  of  John  Woolman  by  heart;  and 
love  the  early  Quakers. 

How  far  the  followers  of  these  good  men  in  our 
days  have  kept  to  the  primitive  spirit,  or  in  what 
proportion  they  have  substituted  formality  for  it, 
the  Judge  of  Spirits  can  alone  determine.  I  have 
seen  faces  in  their  assembhes  upon  which  the  dove 
sate  visibly  brooding.  Others,  again,  I  have  watched, 
when  my  thoughts  should  have  been  better  en- 
gaged, in  which  I  could  possibly  detect  nothing  but 
92 


A   QUAKERS'  MEETING 

a  blank  inanity.  But  quiet  was  in  all,  and  the  dispo- 
sition to  unanimity,  and  the  absence  of  the  fierce 
controversial  workings. — If  the  spiritual  preten- 
sions of  the  Quakers  have  abated,  at  least  they 
make  few  pretences.  Hypocrites  they  certainly  are 
not,  in  their  preaching.  It  is  seldom,  indeed,  that 
you  shall  see  one  get  up  amongst  them  to  hold  forth. 
Only  now  and  then  a  trembling,  female,  generally 
ancient,  voice  is  heard — you  cannot  guess  from 
what  part  of  the  meeting  it  proceeds — with  a  low, 
buzzing,  musical  sound,  laying  out  a  few  words 
which  "she  thought  might  suit  the  condition  of 
some  present,"  with  a  quaking  diffidence,  which 
leaves  no  possibility  of  supposing  that  anything  of 
female  vanity  was  mixed  up,  where  the  tones  were 
so  full  of  tenderness,  and  a  restraining  modesty. — 
The  men,  for  what  I  have  observed,  speak  seldomer. 
Once  only,  and  it  was  some  years  ago,  I  witnessed 
a  sample  of  the  old  Foxian  orgasm.  It  was  a  man 
of  giant  stature,  who,  as  Wordsworth  phrases  it, 
might  have  danced  "from  head  to  foot  equipt  in 
iron  mail."  His  frame  was  of  iron  too.  But  he  was 
malleable.  I  saw  him  shake  all  over  with  the  spirit 
— I  dare  not  say  of  delusion.  The  strivings  of  the 
outer  man  were  unutterable — he  seemed  not  to 
speak,  but  to  be  spoken  from.  I  saw  the  strong  man 
bowed  down,  and  his  knees  to  fail — his  joints  all 
seemed  loosening — it  was  a  figure  to  set  off  against 
Paul  preaching — the  words  he  uttered  were  few, 
and  sound — he  was  evidently  resisting  his  will — 

93 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

keeping  down  his  own  word-wisdom  with  more 
mighty  effort  than  the  world's  orators  strain  for 
theirs.  "He  had  been  a  wit  in  his  youth,"  he  told 
us,  with  expressions  of  a  sober  remorse.  And  it  was 
not  till  long  after  the  impression  had  begun  to  wear 
away,  that  I  was  enabled,  with  something  like  a 
smile,  to  recall  the  striking  incongruity  of  the  con- 
fession— understanding  the  term  in  its  worldly  ac- 
ceptation— with  the  frame  and  physiognomy  of  the 
person  before  me.  His  brow  would  have  scared  away 
the  Levities — the  Jocos  Risus-que — faster  than  the 
Loves  fled  the  face  of  Dis  at  Enna. — By  voit,  even 
in  his  youth,  I  will  be  sworn  he  understood  some- 
thing far  within  the  limits  of  an  allowable  liberty. 

More  frequently  the  Meeting  is  broken  up  with- 
out a  word  having  been  spoken.  But  the  mind  has 
been  fed.  You  go  away  with  a  sermon  not  made 
with  hands.  You  have  been  in  the  milder  caverns  of 
Trophonius ;  or  as  in  some  den,  where  that  fiercest 
and  savagest  of  all  wild  creatures,  the  Tongue,  that 
unruly  member,  has  strangely  lain  tied  up  and  cap- 
tive. You  have  bathed  with  stillness. — O,  when  the 
spirit  is  sore  fretted,  even  tired  to  sickness  of  the 
j anglings  and  nonsense-noises  of  the  world,  what  a 
balm  and  a  solace  it  is  to  go  and  seat  yourself  for 
a  quiet  half-hour  upon  some  undisputed  corner  of  a 
bench,  among  the  gentle  Quakers ! 

Their  garb  and  stillness  conjoined,  present  a  uni- 
formity, tranquil  and  herd-like — as  in  the  pasture 
— "forty  feeding  like  one." — 
94 


A  QUAKERS'   MEETING 

The  very  garments  of  a  Quaker  seem  incapable 
of  receiving  a  soil;  and  cleanliness  in  them  to  be 
something  more  than  the  absence  of  its  contrary. 
Every  Quakeress  is  a  lily;  and  when  they  come  up 
in  bands  to  their  Whitsun  conferences,  whitening 
the  easterly  streets  of  the  metropoUs,  from  all  parts 
of  the  United  Kingdom,  they  show  like  troops  of 
the  Shining  Ones. 


98 


THE  OLD  AND  THE  NEW 
SCHOOLMASTER 

MY  reading  has  been  lamentably  desultory  and 
immethodical.  Odd,  out  of  the  way,  old  Eng- 
lish plays,  and  treatises,  have  supplied  me  with  most 
of  my  notions,  and  ways  of  feeling.  In  everything 
that  relates  to  science,  I  am  a  whole  Encyclopsedia 
behind  the  rest  of  the  world.  I  should  have  scarcely 
cut  a  figure  among  the  franklins,  or  country  gentle- 
men, in  King  John's  days.  I  know  less  geography 
than  a  schoolboy  of  six  weeks'  standing.  To  me  a 
map  of  old  Ortelius  is  as  authentic  as  Arrowsmith. 
I  do  not  know  whereabout  Africa  merges  into  Asia; 
whether  Ethiopia  lie  in  one  or  other  of  those  great 
divisions;  nor  can  form  the  remotest  conjecture  of 
the  position  of  New  South  Wales,  or  Van  Diemen's 
Land.  Yet  do  I  hold  a  correspondence  with  a  very 
dear  friend  in  the  first-named  of  these  two  Terrae 
Incognitas.  I  have  no  astronomy.  I  do  not  know 
where  to  look  for  the  Bear,  or  Charles's  Wain;  the 
place  of  any  star;  or  the  name  of  any  of  them  at 
sight.  I  guess  at  Venus  only  by  her  brightness — 
and  if  the  sun  on  some  portentous  morn  were  to 
make  his  first  appearance  in  the  West,  I  verily 
beheve,  that,  while  all  the  world  were  gasping  in 
apprehension  about  me,  I  alone  should  stand  unter- 
rified,  from  sheer  incuriosity  and  want  of  obser- 
vation. Of  history  and  chronology  I  possess  some 
96 


OLD   AND    NEW   SCHOOLMASTER 

vague  points,  such  as  one  cannot  help  picking  up 
in  the  course  of  miscellaneous  study;  but  I  never 
deliberately  sat  down  to  a  chronicle,  even  of  my 
own  country.  I  have  most  dim  apprehensions  of  the 
four  great  monarchies ;  and  sometimes  the  Assyrian, 
sometimes  the  Persian,  floats  Sisjirst  in  my  fancy. 
I  make  the  widest  conjectures  concerning  Egypt, 
and  her  shepherd  kings.  My  friend  M.,  with  great 
painstaking,  got  me  to  think  I  understood  the  first 
proposition  in  Euclid,  but  gave  me  over  in  despair 
at  the  second.  I  am  entirely  unacquainted  with  the 
modern  languages;  and,  like  a  better  man  than  my- 
self, have  "small  Latin  and  less  Greek."  I  am  a 
stranger  to  the  shapes  and  texture  of  the  common- 
est trees,  herbs,  flowers — not  from  the  circumstance 
of  my  being  town-born — for  I  should  have  brought 
the  same  inobservant  spirit  into  the  world  with  me, 
had  I  first  seen  it  "on  Devon's  leafy  shores," — and 
am  no  less  at  a  loss  among  purely  town  objects, 
tools,  engines,  mechanic  processes. — Not  that  I  af- 
fect ignorance — but  my  head  has  not  many  man- 
sions, nor  spacious;  and  I  have  been  obliged  to  fill 
it  with  such  cabinet  curiosities  as  it  can  hold  with- 
out aching.  I  sometimes  wonder  how  I  have  passed 
my  probation  with  so  little  discredit  in  the  world, 
as  I  have  done,  upon  so  meagre  a  stock.  But  the 
fact  is,  a  man  may  do  very  well  with  a  very  little 
knowledge,  and  scarce  be  found  out,  in  mixed  com- 
pany ;  everybody  is  so  much  more  ready  to  produce 
his  own,  than  to  call  for  a  display  of  your  acquisi- 

97 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

tions.  But  in  a  tete-a-tete  there  is  no  shuffling.  The 
truth  will  out.  There  is  nothing  which  I  dread  so 
much,  as  the  being  left  alone  for  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  with  a  sensible,  well-informed  man,  that  does 
not  know  me.  I  lately  got  into  a  dilemma  of  this 
sort.  — 

In  one  of  my  daily  jaunts  between  Bishopsgate 
and  Shacklewell,  the  coach  stopped  to  take  up  a 
staid-looking  gentleman,  about  the  wrong  side  of 
thirty,  who  was  giving  his  parting  directions  (while 
the  steps  were  adjusting),  in  a  tone  of  mild  author- 
ity, to  a  tall  youth,  who  seemed  to  be  neither  his 
clerk,  his  son,  nor  his  servant,  but  something  par- 
taking of  all  three.  The  youth  was  dismissed,  and 
we  drove  on.  As  we  were  the  sole  passengers,  he 
naturally  enough  addressed  his  conversation  to  me ; 
and  we  discussed  the  merits  of  the  fare;  the  civility 
and  punctuality  of  the  driver ;  the  circumstance  of 
an  opposition  coach  having  been  lately  set  up,  with 
the  probabilities  of  its  success — to  all  which  I  was 
enabled  to  return  pretty  satisfactory  answers,  hav- 
ing been  drilled  into  this  kind  of  etiquette  by  some 
years'  daily  practice  of  riding  to  and  fro  in  the  stage 
aforesaid^ — when  he  suddenly  alarmed  me  by  a  star- 
tling question,  whether  I  had  seen  the  show  of  prize 
cattle  that  morning  in  Smithfield?  Now,  as  I  had 
not  seen  it,  and  do  not  greatly  care  for  such  sort  of 
exhibitions,  I  was  obliged  to  return  a  cold  negative. 
He  seemed  a  little  mortified,  as  well  as  astonished, 
at  my  declaration,  as  (it  appeared)  he  was  just  come 
98 


OLD  AND   NEW   SCHOOLMASTER 

fresh  from  the  sight,  and  doubtless  had  hoped  to 
compare  notes  on  the  subject.  However,  he  assured 
me  that  I  had  lost  a  fine  treat,  as  it  far  exceeded 
the  show  of  last  year.  We  were  now  approaching 
Norton  Folgate,  when  the  sight  of  some  shop-goods 
ticketed  freshened  him  up  into  a  dissertation  upon 
the  cheapness  of  cottons  this  spring.  I  was  now  a 
little  in  heart,  as  the  nature  of  my  morning  avoca- 
tions had  brought  me  into  some  sort  of  familiarity 
with  the  raw  material ;  and  I  was  surprised  to  find 
how  eloquent  I  was  becoming  on  the  stat^  of  the 
India  market;  when,  presently,  he  dashed  my  incipi- 
ent vanity  to  the  earth  at  once,  by  inquiring  whether 
I  had  ever  made  any  calculation  as  to  the  value  of 
the  rental  of  all  the  retail  shops  in  London.  Had  he 
asked  of  me  what  song  the  Sirens  sang,  or  what 
name  Achilles  assumed  when  he  hid  himself  among 
women,  I  might,  with  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  have 
hazarded  a  "wide  solution. "^  My  companion  saw 
my  embarrassment,  and,  the  almshouses  beyond 
Shoreditch  just  coming  in  view,  with  great  good- 
nature and  dexterity  shifted  his  conversation  to  the 
subject  of  public  charities;  which  led  to  the  com- 
parative merits  of  provision  for  the  poor  in  past  and 
present  times,  with  observations  on  the  old  monastic 
institutions,  and  charitable  orders;  but,  finding  me 
rather  dimly  impressed  with  some  glimmering  no- 
tions from  old  poetic  associations,  than  strongly  for- 
tified with  any  speculations  reducible  to  calculation 

^  Urn  Burial. 

99 


THE  ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

on  the  subject,  he  gave  the  matter  up;  and,  the 
country  beginning  to  open  more  and  more  upon  us, 
as  we  approached  the  turnpike  at  Kingsland  (the 
destined  termination  of  his  journey),  he  put  a  home 
thrust  upon  me,  in  the  most  unfortunate  position 
he  could  have  chosen,  by  advancing  some  queries 
relative  to  the  North  Pole  Expedition.  While  I  was 
muttering  out  something  about  the  Panorama  of 
those  strange  regions  (which  I  had  actually  seen), 
by  way  of  parrying  the  question,  the  coach  stop- 
ping relieved  me  from  any  further  apprehensions. 
My  companion  getting  out,  left  me  in  the  comfort- 
able possession  of  my  ignorance ;  and  I  heard  him, 
as  he  went  of,  putting  questions  to  an  outside  pas- 
senger, who  had  alighted  with  him,  regarding  an 
epidemic  disorder  that  had  been  rife  about  Dalston, 
and  which  my  friend  assured  him  had  gone  through 
five  or  six  schools  in  that  neighbourhood.  The  truth 
now  flashed  upon  me,  that  my  companion  was  a 
schoolmaster;  and  that  the  youth,  whom  he  had 
parted  from  at  our  first  acquaintance,  must  have 
been  one  of  the  bigger  boys,  or  the  usher. — He 
was  evidently  a  kind-hearted  man,  who  did  not 
seem  so  much  desirous  of  provoking  discussion  by 
the  questions  which  he  put,  as  of  obtaining  infor- 
mation at  any  rate.  It  did  not  appear  that  he  took 
any  interest,  either,  in  such  kind  of  inquiries,  for 
their  own  sake;  but  that  he  was  in  some  way  bound 
to  seek  for  knowledge.  A  greenish-coloured  coat, 
which  he  had  on,  forbade  me  to  surmise  that  he 
100 


OLD  AND   NEW   SCHOOLMASTER 

was  a  clergyman.  The  adventure  gave  birth  to  some 
reflections  on  the  difference  between  persons  of  his 
profession  in  past  and  present  times. 

Rest  to  the  souls  of  those  fine  old  Pedagogues; 
the  breed,  long  since  extinct,  of  the  Lilys,  and  the 
Linacres :  who  believing  that  all  learning  was  con- 
tained in  the  languages  which  they  taught,  and  de- 
spising every  other  acquirement  as  superficial  and 
useless,  came  to  their  task  as  to  a  sport!  Passing 
from  infancy  to  age,  they  dreamed  away  all  their 
days  as  in  a  grammar-school.  Revolving  in  a  per- 
petual cycle  of  declensions,  conjugations,  syntaxes, 
and  prosodies ;  renewing  constantly  the  occupations 
which  had  charmed  their  studious  childhood;  re- 
hearsing continually  the  part  of  the  past ;  life  must 
have  slipped  from  them  at  last  like  one  day.  They 
were  always  in  their  first  garden,  reaping  harvests 
of  their  golden  time,  among  their  Flori-  and  their 
Spici-legia;  in  Arcadia  still,  but  kings;  the  ferule 
of  their  sway  not  much  harsher,  but  of  like  dignity 
with  that  mild  sceptre  attributed  to  king  Basilius ; 
the  Greek  and  Latin,  their  stately  Pamela  and  their 
Philoclea;  with  the  occasional  duncery  of  some  un- 
toward Tyro,  serving  for  a  refreshing  interlude  of  a 
Mopsa,  or  a  clown  Damoetas ! 

With  what  a  savour  doth  the  Preface  to  Colet's, 
or  (as  it  is  sometimes  called)  Paul's  Accidence,  set 
forth!  "To  exhort  every  man  to  the  learning  of 
grammar,  that  intendeth  to  attain  the  understand- 
ing of  the  tongues,  wherein  is  contained  a  great 

101 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

treasury  of  wisdom  and  knowledge,  it  would  seem 
but  vain  and  lost  labour ;  for  so  much  as  it  is  known, 
that  nothing  can  surely  be  ended,  whose  beginning 
is  either  feeble  or  faulty ;  and  no  building  be  perfect, 
whereas  the  foundation  and  groundwork  is  ready  to 
fall,  and  unable  to  uphold  the  burden  of  the  frame." 
How  well  doth  this  stately  preamble  (comparable  to 
those  which  Milton  commendeth  as  "having  been 
the  usage  to  prefix  to  some  solemn  law,  then  first 
promulgated  by  Solon  or  Lycurgus")  correspond 
with  and  illustrate  that  pious  zeal  for  conformity, 
expressed  in  a  succeeding  clause,  which  would  fence 
about  grammar-rules  with  the  severity  of  faith-arti- 
cles!—  "as  for  the  diversity  of  grammars,  it  is  well 
profitably  taken  away  by  the  King's  Majesties  wis- 
dom, who  foreseeing  the  inconvenience,  and  favour- 
ably providing  the  remedie,  caused  one  kind  of 
grammar  by  sundry  learned  men  to  be  diligently 
drawn,  and  so  to  be  set  out,  only  everywhere  to  be 
taught  for  the  use  of  learners,  and  for  the  hurt  in 
changing  of  schoolmaisters."  What  a  gusto  in  that 
which  follows:  "wherein  it  is  profitable  that  he  (the 
pupil)  can  orderly  decline  his  noun  and  his  verb." 
His  noun ! 

The  fine  dream  is  fading  away  fast ;  and  the  least 
concern  of  a  teacher  in  the  present  day  is  to  incul- 
cate grammar-rules. 

The  modern  schoolmaster  is  expected  to  know  a 
little  of  everything,  because  his  pupil  is  required 
not  to  be  entirely  ignorant  of  anything.  He  must 
102 


OLD   AND   NEW   SCHOOLMASTER 

be  superficially,  if  I  may  so  say,  omniscient.  He  is 
to  know  something  of  pneumatics ;  of  chemistry;  of 
whatever  is  curious  or  proper  to  excite  the  attention 
of  the  youthful  mind;  an  insight  into  mechanics 
is  desirable,  with  a  touch  of  statistics;  the  quahty 
of  soils,  etc.,  botany,  the  constitution  of  his  country, 
cum  multis  aliis.  You  may  get  a  notion  of  some  part 
of  his  expected  duties  by  consulting  the  famous 
Tractate  on  Education,  addressed  to  INIr.  Harthb. 

All  these  things — these,  or  the  desire  of  them — 
he  is  expected  to  instil,  not  by  set  lessons  from  pro- 
fessors, which  he  may  charge  in  the  bill,  but  at 
school  intervals,  as  he  walks  the  streets,  or  saunters 
through  green  fields  (those  natural  instructors),  with 
his  pupils.  The  least  part  of  what  is  expected  from 
him  is  to  be  done  in  school-hours.  He  must  insinu- 
ate knowledge  at  the  mollia  tempora  fandi.  He  must 
seize  every  occasion — the  season  of  the  year — the 
time  of  the  day — a  passing  cloud — a  rainbow — a 
waggon  of  hay — a  regiment  of  soldiers  going  by — 
to  inculcate  something  useful.  He  can  receive  no 
pleasure  from  a  casual  glimpse  of  Nature,  but  must 
catch  at  it  as  an  object  of  instruction.  He  must 
interpret  beauty  into  the  picturesque.  He  cannot 
relish  a  beggar-man,  or  a  gipsy,  for  thinking  of  the 
suitable  improvement.  Nothing  comes  to  him,  not 
spoiled  by  the  sophisticating  medium  of  moral  uses. 
The  Universe — that  Great  Book,  as  it  has  been 
called — is  to  him,  indeed,  to  all  intents  and  pur- 
poses, a  book  out  of  which  he  is  doomed  to  read 

103 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

tedious  homilies  to  distasting  schoolboys. — Vaca- 
tions themselves  are  none  to  him,  he  is  only  rather 
worse  off  than  before;  for  commonly  he  has  some  in- 
trusive upper-boy  fastened  upon  him  at  such  times ; 
some  cadet  of  a  great  family ;  some  neglected  lump 
of  nobihty,  or  gentry;  that  he  must  drag  after  him 
to  the  play,  to  the  Panorama,  to  Mr.  Bartley's 
Orrery,  to  the  Panopticon,  or  into  the  country,  to 
a  friend's  house,  or  his  favourite  watering-place. 
Wherever  he  goes,  this  uneasy  shadow  attends  him. 
A  boy  is  at  his  board,  and  in  his  path,  and  in  all  his 
movements.  He  is  boy-rid,  sick  of  perpetual  boy. 

Boys  are  capital  fellows  in  their  own  way,  among 
their  mates ;  but  they  are  unwholesome  companions 
for  grown  people.  The  restraint  is  felt  no  less  on 
the  one  side  than  on  the  other. — Even  a  child,  that 
"plaything  for  an  hour,"  tires  always.  The  noises 
of  children,  playing  their  own  fancies — as  I  now 
hearken  to  them,  by  fits,  sporting  on  the  green 
before  my  window,  while  I  am  engaged  in  these 
grave  speculations  at  my  neat  suburban  retreat  at 
Shacklewell — by  distance  made  more  sweet — inex- 
pressibly take  from  the  labour  of  my  task.  It  is  hke 
writing  to  music.  They  seem  to  modulate  my  pe- 
riods. They  ought  at  least  to  do  so — for  in  the 
voice  of  that  tender  age  there  is  a  kind  of  poetry, 
far  unhke  the  harsh  prose-accents  of  man's  conver- 
sation.— I  should  but  spoil  their  sport,  and  dimin- 
ish my  own  sympathy  for  them,  by  minghng  in 
their  pastime. 
104 


OLD   AND   NEW    SCHOOLMASTER 

I  would  not  be  domesticated  all  my  days  with  a 
person  of  very  superior  capacity  to  my  own — not, 
if  I  know  myself  at  all,  from  any  considerations  of 
jealousy  or  self- comparison,  for  the  occasional  com- 
munion with  such  minds  has  constituted  the  fortune 
and  felicity  of  my  life — but  the  habit  of  too  con- 
stant intercourse  with  spirits  above  you,  instead  of 
raising  you,  keeps  you  down.  Too  frequent  doses  of 
original  thinking  from  others  restrain  what  lesser 
portion  of  that  faculty  you  may  possess  of  your 
own.  You  get  entangled  in  another  man's  mind, 
even  as  you  lose  yourself  in  another  man's  grounds. 
You  are  walking  with  a  tall  varlet,  whose  strides 
out-pace  yours  to  lassitude.  The  constant  operation 
of  such  potent  agency  would  reduce  me,  I  am  con- 
vinced, to  imbecihty.  You  may  derive  thoughts 
from  others;  your  way  of  thinking,  the  mould  in 
which  your  thoughts  are  cast,  must  be  your  own. 
Intellect  may  be  imparted,  but  not  each  man's  in- 
tellectual frame. — 

As  httle  as  I  should  wish  to  be  always  thus  dragged 
upward,  as  little  (or  rather  still  less)  is  it  desirable  to 
be  stunted  downwards  by  your  associates.  The  trum- 
pet does  not  more  stun  you  by  its  loudness,  than  a 
whisper  teases  you  by  its  provoking  inaudibility. 

Why  are  we  never  quite  at  our  ease  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  schoolmaster? — because  we  are  conscious 
that  he  is  not  quite  at  his  ease  in  ours.  He  is  awk- 
ward, and  out  of  place  in  the  society  of  his  equals. 
He  comes  like  Gulliver  from  among  his  little  people, 

105 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

and  he  cannot  fit  the  stature  of  his  understanding  to 
yours.  He  cannot  meet  you  on  the  square.  He  wants 
a  point  given  him,  Uke  an  indifferent  whist-player. 
He  is  so  used  to  teaching,  that  he  wants  to  be  teach- 
ing you.  One  of  these  professors,  upon  my  com- 
plaining that  these  little  sketches  of  mine  were  any- 
thing but  methodical,  and  that  I  was  unable  to  make 
them  otherwise,  kindly  offered  to  instruct  me  in  the 
method  by  which  young  gentlemen  in  his  seminary 
were  taught  to  compose  Enghsh  themes. — The  jests 
of  a  schoolmaster  are  coarse,  or  thin.  They  do  not  tell 
out  of  school.  He  is  under  the  restraint  of  a  formal 
and  didactive  hypocrisy  in  company,  as  a  clergyman 
is  under  a  moral  one.  He  can  no  more  let  his  intel- 
lect loose  in  society  than  the  other  can  his  inclina- 
tions. He  is  forlorn  among  his  coevals;  his  juniors 
cannot  be  his  friends. 

"I  take  blame  to  myself,"  said  a  sensible  man  of 
this  profession,  writing  to  a  friend  respecting  a  youth 
who  had  quitted  his  school  abruptly,  "that  your 
nephew  was  not  more  attached  to  me.  But  persons 
in  my  situation  are  more  to  be  pitied  than  can  well 
be  imagined.  We  are  surrounded  by  young,  and, 
consequently,  ardently  affectionate  hearts,  but  we 
can  never  hope  to  share  an  atom  of  their  affections. 
The  relation  of  master  and  scholar  forbids  this.  How 
pleasing  this  must  he  to  you,  how  I  envy  your  feel- 
ings! my  friends  will  sometimes  say  to  me,  when 
they  see  young  men  whom  I  have  educated,  return 
after  some  years'  absence  from  school,  their  eyes 
106 


OLD   AND   NEW   SCHOOLMASTER 

shining  with  pleasure,  while  they  shake  hands  with 
their  old  master,  bringing  a  present  of  game  to  me, 
or  a  toy  to  my  wife,  and  thanking  me  in  the  warmest 
terms  for  my  care  of  their  education.  A  holiday  is 
begged  for  the  boys ;  the  house  is  a  scene  of  happi- 
ness; I,  only,  am  sad  at  heart. — This  fine-spirited 
and  warm-hearted  youth,  who  fancies  he  repays 
his  master  with  gratitude  for  the  care  of  his  boyish 
years — this  young  man — in  the  eight  long  years  I 
watched  over  him  with  a  parent's  anxiety,  never 
could  repay  me  with  one  look  of  genuine  feeling. 
He  was  proud,  when  I  praised ;  he  was  submissive, 
when  I  reproved  him ;  but  he  did  never  love  me — 
and  what  he  now  mistakes  for  gratitude  and  kind- 
ness for  me,  is  but  the  pleasant  sensation  which  all 
persons  feel  at  revisiting  the  scenes  of  their  boyish 
hopes  and  fears ;  and  the  seeing  on  equal  terms  the 
man  they  were  accustomed  to  look  up  to  with  rev- 
erence. My  wife,  too,"  this  interesting  correspondent 
goes  on  to  say,  "my  once  darling  Anna,  is  the  wife 
of  a  schoolmaster. — When  I  married  her — knowing 
that  the  wife  of  a  schoolmaster  ought  to  be  a  busy 
notable  creature,  and  fearing  that  my  gentle  Anna 
would  ill  supply  the  loss  of  my  dear  bustling  mother, 
just  then  dead,  who  never  sat  still,  was  in  every  part 
of  the  house  in  a  moment,  and  whom  I  was  obliged 
sometimes  to  threaten  to  fasten  down  in  a  chair,  to 
save  her  from  fatiguing  herself  to  death — I  expressed 
my  fears  that  I  was  bringing  her  into  a  way  of  life 
unsuitable  to  her;  and  she,  who  loved  me  tenderly, 

107 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

promised  for  my  sake  to  exert  herself  to  perform  the 
duties  of  her  new  situation.  She  promised,  and  she 
has  kept  her  word.  What  wonders  will  not  woman's 
love  perform  ? — My  house  is  managed  with  a  pro- 
priety and  decorum  unknown  in  other  schools ;  my 
boys  are  well  fed,  look  healthy,  and  have  every 
proper  accommodation ;  and  all  this  performed  with 
a  careful  economy,  that  never  descends  to  meanness. 
But  I  have  lost  my  gentle  helpless  Anna !  When  we 
sit  down  to  enjoy  an  hour  of  repose  after  the  fatigue 
of  the  day,  I  am  compelled  to  listen  to  what  have 
been  her  useful  (and  they  are  really  useful)  employ- 
ments through  the  day,  and  what  she  proposes  for 
her  to-morrow's  task.  Her  heart  and  her  features 
are  changed  by  the  duties  of  her  situation.  To  the 
boys,  she  never  appears  other  than  the  masters  wife, 
and  she  looks  up  to  me  as  the  boys'  master;  to  whom 
all  show  of  love  and  affection  would  be  highly  im- 
proper, and  unbecoming  the  dignity  of  her  situation 
and  mine.  Yet  this  my  gratitude  forbids  me  to  hint 
to  her.  For  my  sake  she  submitted  to  be  this  altered 
creature,  and  can  I  reproach  her  for  it  ? " — For  the 
communication  of  this  letter  I  am  indebted  to  my 
cousin  Bridget. 


108 


IMPERFECT   SYMPATHIES 

I  am  of  a  constitution  so  general,  that  it  consorts  and  sympa- 
thiseth  with  all  things;  I  have  no  antipathy,  or  rather  idiosyn- 
crasy in  anything.  Those  natural  repugnancies  do  not  touch  me, 
nor  do  I  behold  with  prejudice  the  French,  Italian,  Spaniard,  or 
Dutch.  —  Religio  Medici. 

THAT  the  author  of  the  Religio  Medici  mounted 
upon  the  airy  stilts  of  abstraction,  conversant 
about  notional  and  conjectural  essences;  in  whose 
categories  of  Being  the  possible  took  the  upper  hand 
of  the  actual ;  should  have  overlooked  the  imperti- 
nent individualities  of  such  poor  concretions  as  man- 
kind, is  not  much  to  be  admired.  It  is  rather  to  be 
wondered  at,  that  in  the  genus  of  animals  he  should 
have  condescended  to  distinguish  that  species  at  all. 
For  myself — earth-bound  and  fettered  to  the  scene 
of  my  activities, — 

Standing  on  earth,  not  rapt  above  the  sky, 

I  confess  that  I  do  feel  the  differences  of  mankind, 
national  or  individual,  to  an  unhealthy  excess.  I  can 
look  with  no  indifferent  eye  upon  things  or  persons. 
Whatever  is,  is  to  me  a  matter  of  taste  or  distaste; 
or  when  once  it  becomes  indifferent,  it  begins  to 
be  disrelishing.  I  am,  in  plainer  words,  a  bundle  of 
prejudices — made  up  of  likings  and  dislikings — the 
veriest  thrall  to  sympathies,  apathies,  antipathies. 
In  a  certain  sense,  I  hope  it  may  be  said  of  me  that 

109 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

I  am  a  lover  of  my  species.  I  can  feel  for  all  indif- 
ferently, but  I  cannot  feel  towards  all  equally.  The 
more  purely-English  word  that  expresses  sympathy, 
will  better  explain  my  meaning.  I  can  be  a  friend  to 
a  worthy  man,  who  upon  another  account  cannot  be 
my  mate  or  fellow.  I  cannot  like  all  people  alike.^ 

I  have  been  trying  all  my  life  to  like  Scotchmen, 
and  am  obliged  to  desist  horn  the  experiment  in 
despair.  They  cannot  hke  me — and  in  truth,  I  never 
knew  one  of  that  nation  who  attempted  to  do  it. 
There  is  something  more  plain  and  ingenuous  in 

*  I  would  be  understood  as  confining  myself  to  the  subject  of 
imperfect  sympathies.  To  nations  or  classes  of  men  there  can  be  no 
direct  antipathy.  There  may  be  individuals  born  and  constellated 
so  opposite  to  another  individual  nature,  that  the  same  sphere 
cannot  hold  them.  I  have  met  with  my  moral  antipodes,  and  can 
believe  the  story  of  two  persons  meeting  (who  never  saw  one  an- 
other before  in  their  lives)  and  instantly  fighting. 

We  by  proof  find  there  should  be 

'Twixt  man  and  man  such  an  antipathy. 
That  though  he  can  show  no  just  reason  why 
For  any  former  wrong  or  injury. 
Can  neither  find  a  blemish  in  his  fame, 
Nor  aught  in  face  or  feature  justly  blame. 
Can  challenge  or  accuse  him  of  no  evil. 
Yet  notwithstanding  hates  him  as  a  devil. 

The  lines  are  from  old  Hey  wood's  ''Hierarchic  of  Angels,"  and 
he  subjoins  a  curious  story  in  confirmation,  of  a  Spaniard  who  at- 
tempted to  assassinate  a  king  Ferdinand  of  Spain,  and  being  put 
to  the  rack  could  give  no  other  reason  for  the  deed  but  an  in- 
veterate antipathy  which  he  had  taken  to  the  first  sight  of  the 
king. 

The  cause  which  to  that  act  compell'd  him 

Was,  he  ne'er  loved  him  since  he  first  beheld  him. 
110 


IMPERFECT   SYMPATHIES 

their  mode  of  proceeding.  We  know  one  another 
at  first  sight.  There  is  an  order  of  imperfect  intel- 
lects (under  which  mine  must  be  content  to  rank) 
which  in  its  constitution  is  essentially  anti- Caledo- 
nian. The  owners  of  the  sort  of  faculties  I  allude 
to,  have  minds  rather  suggestive  than  comprehen- 
sive. They  have  no  pretences  to  much  clearness  or 
precision  in  their  ideas,  or  in  their  manner  of  ex- 
pressing them.  Their  intellectual  wardrobe  (to  con- 
fess fairly)  has  few  whole  pieces  in  it.  They  are  con- 
tent with  fragments  and  scattered  pieces  of  Truth. 
She  presents  no  full  front  to  them — a  feature  or 
side-face  at  the  most.  Hints  and  glimpses,  germs 
and  crude  essays  at  a  system,  is  the  utmost  they 
pretend  to.  They  beat  up  a  little  game  perad ven- 
ture— and  leave  it  to  knottier  heads,  more  robust 
constitutions,  to  run  it  down.  The  light  that  lights 
them  is  not  steady  and  polar,  but  mutable  and  shift- 
ing: waxing,  and  again  waning.  Their  conversation 
is  accordingly.  They  will  throw  out  a  random  word 
in  or  out  of  season,  and  be  content  to  let  it  pass  for 
what  it  is  worth.  They  cannot  speak  always  as  if 
they  were  upon  their  oath — but  must  be  under- 
stood, speaking  or  writing,  with  some  abatement. 
They  seldom  wait  to  mature  a  proposition,  but  e'en 
bring  it  to  market  in  the  green  ear.  They  delight 
to  impart  their  defective  discoveries  as  they  arise, 
without  waiting  for  their  full  development.  They 
are  no  systematizers,  and  would  but  err  more  by  at- 
tempting it.  Their  minds,  as  I  said  before,  are  sug- 

111 


THE  ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

gestive  merely.  The  brain  of  a  true  Caledonian  (if  I 
am  not  mistaken)  is  constituted  upon  quite  a  differ- 
ent plan.  His  Minerva  is  born  in  panoply.  You  are 
never  admitted  to  see  his  ideas  in  their  growth — 
if,  indeed,  they  do  grow,  and  are  not  rather  put  to- 
gether upon  principles  of  clock-work.  You  never 
catch  his  mind  in  an  undress.  He  never  hints  or 
suggests  anything,  but  unlades  his  stock  of  ideas  in 
perfect  order  and  completeness.  He  brings  his  total 
wealth  into  company,  and  gravely  unpacks  it.  His 
riches  are  always  about  him.  He  never  stoops  to 
catch  a  glittering  something  in  your  presence  to 
share  it  with  you,  before  he  quite  knows  whether 
it  be  true  touch  or  not.  You  cannot  cry  halves  to 
anything  that  he  finds.  He  does  not  find,  but  bring. 
You  never  witness  his  first  apprehension  of  a  thing. 
His  understanding  is  always  at  its  meridian — you 
never  see  the  first  dawn,  the  early  streaks. — He  has 
no  falterings  of  self-suspicion.  Surmises,  guesses, 
misgivings,  half-intuitions,  semi -consciousnesses, 
partial  illuminations,  dim  instincts,  embryo  con- 
ceptions, have  no  place  in  his  brain  or  vocabulary. 
The  twilight  of  dubiety  never  falls  upon  him.  Is  he 
orthodox — he  has  no  doubts.  Is  he  an  infidel — he 
has  none  either.  Between  the  affiraiative  and  the 
negative  there  is  no  border-land  with  him.  You  can- 
not hover  with  him  upon  the  confines  of  truth,  or 
wander  in  the  maze  of  a  probable  argument.  He 
always  keeps  the  path.  You  cannot  make  excur- 
sions with  him — for  he  sets  you  right.  His  taste 
112 


IMPERFECT   SYMPATHIES 

never  fluctuates.  His  morality  never  abates.  He 
cannot  compromise,  or  understand  middle  actions. 
There  can  be  but  a  right  and  a  wrong.  His  conver- 
sation is  as  a  book.  His  affirmations  have  the  sanc- 
tity of  an  oath.  You  must  speak  upon  the  square 
with  him.  He  stops  a  metaphor  like  a  suspected 
person  in  an  enemy's  country.  "A  healthy  book!" 
— said  one  of  his  countrymen  to  me,  who  had  ven- 
tured to  give  that  appellation  to  John  Buncle, — 
"Did  I  catch  rightly  what  you  said  ?  I  have  heard 
of  a  man  in  health,  and  of  a  healthy  state  of  body, 
but  I  do  not  see  how  that  epithet  can  be  properly 
applied  to  a  book."  Above  all,  you  must  beware  of 
indirect  expressions  before  a  Caledonian.  Clap  an 
extinguisher  upon  your  irony,  if  you  are  unhappily 
blest  with  a  vein  of  it.  Remember  you  are  upon 
your  oath.  I  have  a  print  of  a  graceful  female  after 
Leonardo  da  Vinci,  which  I  was  showing  off  to 
Mr.  *  *  *  ^  After  he  had  examined  it  minutely,  I 
ventured  to  ask  him  how  he  liked  my  beauty  (a 
foolish  name  it  goes  by  among  my  friends) — when 
he  very  gravely  assured  me,  that  "he  had  consider- 
able respect  for  my  character  and  talents"  (so  he 
was  pleased  to  say),  "but  had  not  given  himself 
much  thought  about  the  degree  of  my  personal 
pretensions."  The  misconception  staggered  me,  but 
did  not  seem  much  to  disconcert  him. — Persons  of 
this  nation  are  particularly  fond  of  affirming  a  truth 
— which  nobody  doubts.  They  do  not  so  properly 
affirm,  as  annunciate  it.  They  do  indeed  appear  to 

lib 


THE   ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

have  such  a  love  of  truth  (as  if,  Uke  virtue,  it  were 
valuable  for  itself)  that  all  truth  becomes  equally 
valuable,  whether  the  proposition  that  contains  it 
be  new  or  old,  disputed,  or  such  as  is  impossible  to 
become  a  subject  of  disputation.  I  was  present  not 
long  since  at  a  party  of  North  Britons,  where  a  son 
of  Burns  was  expected;  and  happened  to  drop  a 
silly  expression  (in  my  South  British  way),  that  I 
wished  it  were  the  father  instead  of  the  son — when 
four  of  them  started  up  at  once  to  inform  me,  that 
"that  was  impossible,  because  he  was  dead."  An 
impracticable  wish,  it  seems,  was  more  than  they 
could  conceive.  Swift  has  hit  off  this  part  of  their 
character,  namely  their  love  of  truth,  in  his  biting 
way,  but  with  an  illiberality  that  necessarily  con- 
fines the  passage  to  the  margin.^  The  tediousness 
of  these  people  is  certainly  provoking.  I  wonder 
if  they  ever  tire  one  another! — In  my  early  life  I 
had  a  passionate  fondness  for  the  poetry  of  Burns. 
I  have  sometimes  foolishly  hoped  to  ingratiate  my- 
self with  his  countrymen  by  expressing  it.  But  I 
have  always  found  that  a  true  Scot  resents  your 

^  There  are  some  people  who  think  they  sufficiently  acquit  them- 
selves, and  entertain  their  company,  with  relating  facts  of  no  con- 
sequence, not  at  all  out  of  the  road  of  such  common  incidents  as 
happen  every  day;  and  this  I  have  observed  more  frequently 
among  the  Scots  than  any  other  nation,  who  are  very  careful 
not  to  omit  the  minutest  circumstances  of  time  or  place ;  which 
kind  of  discourse,  if  it  were  not  a  little  relieved  by  the  uncouth 
terms  and  phrases,  as  well  as  accent  and  gesture,  peculiar  to  that 
country,  would  be  hardly  tolerable. — Hints  towards  an  Essay  on 
Conversation. 
114 


IMPERFECT   SYMPATHIES 

admiration  of  his  compatriot  even  more  than  he 
would  your  contempt  of  him.  The  latter  he  im- 
putes to  your  "imperfect  acquaintance  with  many 
of  the  words  which  he  uses";  and  the  same  objec- 
tion makes  it  a  presumption  in  you  to  suppose  that 
you  can  admire  him. — Thomson  they  seem  to  have 
forgotten.  Smollett  they  have  neither  forgotten  nor 
forgiven  for  his  delineation  of  Rory  and  his  com- 
panion, upon  their  first  introduction  to  our  me- 
tropoHs.  —  Speak  of  Smollett  as  a  great  genius,  and 
they  will  retort  upon  you  Hume's  History  com- 
pared with  Ms  Continuation  of  it.  What  if  the  his- 
torian had  continued  Humphrey  Clinker? 

I  have,  in  the  abstract,  no  disrespect  for  Jews. 
They  are  a  piece  of  stubborn  antiquity,  compared 
with  which  Stonehenge  is  in  its  nonage.  They  date 
beyond  the  pyramids.  But  I  should  not  care  to  be 
in  habits  of  familiar  intercourse  with  any  of  that 
nation.  I  confess  that  I  have  not  the  nerves  to  en- 
ter their  synagogues.  Old  prejudices  cling  about 
me.  I  cannot  shake  off  the  story  of  Hugh  of  Lin- 
coln. Centuries  of  injury,  contempt,  and  hate,  on 
the  one  side, — of  cloaked  revenge,  dissimulation, 
and  hate,  on  the  other,  between  our  and  their  fa- 
thers, must  and  ought  to  affect  the  blood  of  the  chil- 
dren. I  cannot  believe  it  can  run  clear  and  kindly 
yet ;  or  that  a  few  fine  words,  such  as  candour,  lib- 
erality, the  light  of  a  nineteenth  century,  can  close 
up  the  breaches  of  so  deadly  a  disunion.  A  Hebrew 
is  nowhere  congenial  to  me.  He  is  least  distasteful 

115 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

on  'Change — for  the  mercantile  spirit  levels  all  dis- 
tinctions, as  all  are  beauties  in  the  dark.  I  boldly 
confess  that  I  do  not  relish  the  approximation  of 
Jew  and  Christian,  which  has  become  so  fashion- 
able. The  reciprocal  endearments  have,  to  me,  some- 
thing hypocritical  and  unnatural  in  them.  I  do  not 
like  to  see  the  Church  and  Synagogue  kissing  and 
congeeing  in  awkward  postures  of  an  affected  civil- 
ity. If  they  are  converted,  why  do  they  not  come 
over  to  us  altogether?  Why  keep  up  a  form  of  sepa- 
ration, when  the  life  of  it  is  fled?  If  they  can  sit 
with  us  at  table,  why  do  they  keck  at  our  cookery  ? 
I  do  not  understand  these  half  convertites.  Jews 
christianizing — Christians  judaizing — puzzle  me.  I 
like  fish  or  flesh.  A  moderate  Jew  is  a  more  con- 
founding piece  of  anomaly  than  a  wet  Quaker.  The 
spirit  of  the   synagogue  is   essentially  separative. 

B would  have  been  more  in  keeping  if  he  had 

abided  by  the  faith  of  his  forefathers.  There  is  a 
fine  scorn  in  his  face,  which  nature  meant  to  be 

of Christians. — The  Hebrew  spirit  is  strong  in 

him,  in  spite  of  his  proselytism.  He  cannot  conquer 
the  Shibboleth.  How  it  breaks  out,  when  he  sings, 
"The  Children  of  Israel  passed  through  the  Red 
Sea!"  The  auditors,  for  the  moment,  are  as  Egyp- 
tians to  him,  and  he  rides  over  our  necks  in  triumph. 
There  is  no  mistaking  him.  B has  a  strong  ex- 
pression of  sense  in  his  countenance,  and  it  is  con- 
firmed by  his  singing.  The  foundation  of  his  vocal 
excellence  is  sense.  He  sings  with  understanding,  as 
116 


IMPERFECT   SYMPATHIES 

Kemble  delivered  dialogue.  He  would  sing  the  Com- 
mandments, and  give  an  appropriate  character  to 
each  prohibition.  His  nation,  in  general,  have  not 
over-sensible  countenances.  How  should  they? — 
but  you  seldom  see  a  silly  expression  among  them. 
— Gain,  and  the  pursuit  of  gain,  sharpen  a  man's 
visage.  I  never  heard  of  an  idiot  being  born  among 
them. — Some  admire  the  Jewish  female-physiog- 
nomy. I  admire  it — but  with  trembling.  Jael  had 
those  full  dark  inscrutable  eyes. 

In  the  Negro  countenance  you  will  often  meet 
with  strong  traits  of  benignity.  I  have  felt  yearnings 
of  tenderness  towards  some  of  these  faces — or  rather 
masks — that  have  looked  out  kindly  upon  one  in 
casual  encounters  in  the  streets  and  highways.  I 
love  what  Fuller  beautifully  calls — these  "images 
of  God  cut  in  ebony."  But  I  should  not  like  to  as- 
sociate with  them,  to  share  my  meals  and  my  good 
nights  with  them — because  they  are  black. 

I  love  Quaker  ways,  and  Quaker  worship.  I  ven- 
erate the  Quaker  principles.  It  does  me  good  for 
the  rest  of  the  day  when  I  meet  any  of  their  people 
in  my  path.  When  I  am  ruffled  or  disturbed  by  any 
occurrence,  the  sight,  or  quiet  voice  of  a  Quaker, 
acts  upon  me  as  a  ventilator,  lightening  the  air,  and 
taking  off  a  load  from  the  bosom.  But  I  cannot  like 
the  Quakers  (as  Desdemona  would  say)  "to  live 
with  them."  I  am  all  over  sophisticated — with  hu- 
mours, fancies,  craving  hourly  sympathy.  I  must 
have   books,  pictures,  theatres,  chit-chat,  scandal, 

117 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

jokes,  ambiguities,  and  a  thousand  whim-whams, 
which  their  simpler  taste  can  do  without.  I  should 
starve  at  their  primitive  banquet.  My  appetites  are 
too  high  for  the  salads  which  (according  to  Evelyn) 
Eve  dressed  for  the  angel;  my  gusto  too  excited 

To  sit  a  guest  with  Daniel  at  his  pulse. 

The  indirect  answers  which  Quakers  are  often 
found  to  return  to  a  question  put  to  them  may  be 
explained,  I  think,  without  the  vulgar  assumption, 
that  they  are  more  given  to  evasion  and  equivocat- 
ing than  other  people.  They  naturally  look  to  their 
words  more  carefully,  and  are  more  cautious  of  com- 
mitting themselves.  They  have  a  pecuHar  character 
to  keep  up  on  this  head.  They  stand  in  a  manner 
upon  their  veracity.  A  Quaker  is  by  law  exempted 
from  taking  an  oath.  The  custom  of  resorting  to  an 
oath  in  extreme  cases,  sanctified  as  it  is  by  all  re- 
hgious  antiquity,  is  apt  (it  must  be  confessed)  to  in- 
troduce into  the  laxer  sort  of  minds  the  notion  of  two 
kinds  of  truth — the  one  applicable  to  the  solemn 
affairs  of  justice,  and  the  other  to  the  common  pro- 
ceedings of  daily  intercourse.  As  truth  bound  upon 
the  conscience  by  an  oath  can  be  but  truth,  so  in  the 
common  affirmations  of  the  shop  and  the  market- 
place a  latitude  is  expected  and  conceded  upon  ques- 
tions wanting  this  solemn  covenant.  Something  less 
than  truth  satisfies.  It  is  common  to  hear  a  person 
say,  "You  do  not  expect  me  to  speak  as  if  I  were 
upon  my  oath."  Hence  a  great  deal  of  incorrectness 
118 


IMPERFECT   SYMPATHIES 

and  inadvertency,  short  of  falsehood,  creeps  into  or- 
dinary conversation ;  and  a  kind  of  secondary  or  laic- 
truth  is  tolerated,  where  clergy -truth — oath -truth, 
by  the  nature  of  the  circumstances,  is  not  required. 
A  Quaker  knows  none  of  this  distinction.  His  sim- 
ple affirmation  being  received  upon  the  most  sacred 
occasions,  without  any  further  test,  stamps  a  value 
upon  the  words  which  he  is  to  use  upon  the  most 
indifferent  topics  of  Hfe.  He  looks  to  them,  natu- 
rally, with  more  severity.  You  can  have  of  him  no 
more  than  his  word.  He  knows,  if  he  is  caught  trip- 
ping in  a  casual  expression,  he  forfeits,  for  himself 
at  least,  his  claim  to  the  invidious  exemption.  He 
knows  that  his  syllables  are  weighed — and  how  far 
a  consciousness  of  this  particular  watchfulness,  ex- 
erted against  a  person,  has  a  tendency  to  produce 
indirect  answers,  and  a  diverting  of  the  question  by 
honest  means,  might  be  illustrated,  and  the  practice 
justified  by  a  more  sacred  example  than  is  proper  to 
be  adduced  upon  this  occasion.  The  admirable  pres- 
ence of  mind,  which  is  notorious  in  Quakers  upon  all 
contingencies,  might  be  traced  to  this  imposed  self- 
watchfulness — if  it  did  not  seem  rather  an  humble 
and  secular  scion  of  that  old  stock  of  religious  con- 
stancy, which  never  bent  or  faltered,  in  the  Primi- 
tive Friends,  or  gave  way  to  the  winds  of  persecu- 
tion, to  the  violence  of  judge  or  accuser,  under  trials 
and  racking  examinations.  "You  will  never  be  the 
wiser,  if  I  sit  here  answering  your  questions  till  mid- 
'::ght,"  said  one  of  those  upright  Justicers  to  Penn, 

119 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

who  had  been  putting  law-cases  with  a  puzzling  sub- 
tlety. "Thereafter  as  the  answers  may  be,"  retorted 
the  Quaker.  The  astonishing  composure  of  this  peo- 
ple is  sometimes  ludicrously  displayed  in  hghter  in- 
stances.— I  was  travelling  in  a  stage-coach  with 
three  male  Quakers,  buttoned  up  in  the  straitest 
nonconformity  of  their  sect.  We  stopped  to  bait  at 
Andover,  where  a  meal,  partly  tea  apparatus,  partly 
supper,  was  set  before  us.  My  friends  confined  them- 
selves to  the  tea-table.  I  in  my  way  took  supper. 
When  the  landlady  brought  in  the  bill,  the  eldest 
of  my  companions  discovered  that  she  had  charged 
for  both  meals.  This  was  resisted.  Mine  hostess  was 
very  clamorous  and  positive.  Some  mild  arguments 
were  used  on  the  part  of  the  Quakers,  for  which  the 
heated  mind  of  the  good  lady  seemed  by  no  means 
a  fit  recipient.  The  guard  came  in  with  his  usual 
peremptory  notice.  The  Quakers  pulled  out  their 
money  and  formally  tendered  it — so  much  for  tea 
— I,  in  humble  imitation,  tendering  mine — for  the 
supper  which  I  had  taken.  She  would  not  relax  in 
her  demand.  So  they  all  three  quietly  put  up  their 
silver,  as  did  myself,  and  marched  out  of  the  room, 
the  eldest  and  gravest  going  first,  with  myself  clos- 
ing up  the  rear,  who  thought  I  could  not  do  better 
than  follow  the  example  of  such  grave  and  warrant- 
able personages.  We  got  in.  The  steps  went  up. 
The  coach  drove  off.  The  murmurs  of  mine  hostess, 
not  very  indistinctly  or  ambiguously  pronounced, 
became  after  a  time  inaudible — and  now  my  con- 
120 


IMPERFECT   SYMPATHIES 

science,  which  the  whimsical  scene  had  for  a  while 
suspended,  beginning  to  give  some  twitches,  I 
waited,  in  the  hope  that  some  justification  would 
be  offered  by  these  serious  persons  for  the  seeming 
injustice  of  their  conduct.  To  my  great  surprise  not 
a  syllable  was  dropped  on  the  subject.  They  sat  as 
mute  as  at  a  meeting.  At  length  the  eldest  of  them 
broke  silence,  by  inquiring  of  his  next  neighbour, 
"Hast  thee  heard  how  indigos  go  at  the  India 
House?"  and  the  question  operated  as  a  soporific 
on  my  moral  feeling  as  far  as  Exeter. 


121 


WITCHES,   AND   OTHER  NIGHT 
FEARS 

WE  are  too  hasty  when  we  set  down  our  ances- 
tors in  the  gross  for  fools,  for  the  monstrous 
inconsistencies  (as  they  seem  to  us)  involved  in  their 
creed  of  witchcraft.  In  the  relations  of  this  visible 
world  we  find  them  to  have  been  as  rational,  and 
shrewd  to  detect  an  historic  anomaly,  as  ourselves. 
But  when  once  the  invisible  world  was  supposed  to 
be  open,  and  the  lawless  agency  of  bad  spirits  as- 
sumed, what  measures  of  probability,  of  decency,  of 
fitness,  or  proportion— of  that  which  distinguishes 
the  likely  from  the  palpable  absurd — could  they 
have  to  guide  them  in  the  rejection  or  admission 
of  any  particular  testimony? — That  maidens  pined 
away,  wasting  inwardly  as  their  waxen  images  con- 
sumed before  a  fire — that  corn  was  lodged,  and 
cattle  lamed — ^that  whirlwinds  up  tore  in  diabolic 
revelry  the  oaks  of  the  forest — or  that  spits  and 
kettles  only  danced  a  fearful-innocent  vagary  about 
some  rustic's  kitchen  when  no  wind  was  stirring — 
were  all  equally  probable  where  no  law  of  agency 
was  understood.  That  the  prince  of  the  powers  of 
darkness,  passing  by  the  flower  and  pomp  of  the 
earth,  should  lay  preposterous  siege  to  the  weak 
fantasy  of  indigent  eld — has  neither  likelihood  nor 
unlikelihood  a  prioji  to  us,  who  have  no  measure 
to  guess  at  his  policy,  or  standard  to  estimate  what 
122 


WITCHES,   AND   NIGHT   FEARS 

rate  those  anile  souls  may  fetch  in  the  devil's  mar- 
ket. Nor,  when  the  wicked  are  expressly  symbolised 
by  a  goat,  was  it  to  be  wondered  at  so  much,  that 
he  should  come  sometimes  in  that  body,  and  assert 
his  metaphor. — That  the  intercourse  was  opened 
at  all  between  both  worlds  was  perhaps  the  mis- 
take— but  that  once  assumed,  I  see  no  reason  for 
disbelieving  one  attested  story  of  this  nature  more 
than  another  on  the  score  of  absurdity.  There  is  no 
law  to  judge  of  the  lawless,  or  canon  by  which  a 
dream  may  be  criticised. 

I  have  sometimes  thought  that  I  could  not  have 
existed  in  the  days  of  received  witchcraft;  that  I 
could  not  have  slept  in  a  village  where  one  of  those 
reputed  hags  dwelt.  Our  ancestors  were  bolder  or 
more  obtuse.  Amidst  the  universal  belief  that  these 
wretches  were  in  league  with  the  author  of  all  evil, 
holding  hell  tributary  to  their  muttering,  no  simple 
Justice  of  the  Peace  seems  to  have  scrupled  issuing, 
or  silly  Headborough  serving,  a  warrant  upon  them 
— as  if  they  should  subpoena  Satan ! — Prospero  in 
his  boat,  with  his  books  and  wand  about  him,  suf- 
fers himself  to  be  conveyed  away  at  the  mercy  of 
his  enemies  to  an  unknown  island.  He  might  have 
raised  a  storm  or  two,  we  think,  on  the  passage. 
His  acquiescence  is  in  exact  analogy  to  the  non- 
resistance  of  witches  to  the  constituted  powers. — 
What  stops  the  Fiend  in  Spenser  from  tearing 
Guyon  to  pieces — or  who  had  made  it  a  condition 
of  his  prey  that  Guyon  must  take  assay  of  the  glo- 

123 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

rious  bait — we  have  no  guess.  We  do  not  know  the 
laws  of  that  country. 

From  my  childhood  I  was  extremely  inquisitive 
about  witches  and  witch-stories.  My  maid,  and  more 
legendary  aunt,  supplied  me  with  good  store.  But 
I  shall  mention  the  accident  which  directed  my 
curiosity  originally  into  this  channel.  In  my  father's 
book-closet  the  history  of  the  Bible  by  Stackhouse 
occupied  a  distinguished  station.  The  pictures  with 
which  it  abounds — one  of  the  ark,  in  particular,  and 
another  of  Solomon's  temple,  delineated  with  all  the 
fidelity  of  ocular  admeasurement,  as  if  the  artist  had 
been  upon  the  spot — attracted  my  childish  atten- 
tion. There  was  a  picture,  too,  of  the  Witch  raising 
up  Samuel,  which  I  wish  that  I  had  never  seen.  We 
shall  come  to  that  hereafter.  Stackhouse  is  in  two 
huge  tomes;  and  there  was  a  pleasure  in  removing 
folios  of  that  magnitude,  which,  with  infinite  strain- 
ing, was  as  much  as  I  could  manage,  from  the  situa- 
tion which  they  occupied  upon  an  upper  shelf.  I  have 
not  met  with  the  work  from  that  time  to  this,  but 
I  remember  it  consisted  of  Old  Testament  stories, 
orderly  set  down,  with  the  objection  appended  to 
each  story,  and  the  solution  of  the  objection  regu- 
larly tacked  to  that.  The  objection  was  a  summary 
of  whatever  difficulties  had  been  opposed  to  the 
credibility  of  the  history  by  the  shrewdness  of  an- 
cient or  modern  infidelity,  drawn  up  with  an  almost 
complimentary  excess  of  candour.  The  solution  was 
brief,  modest,  and  satisfactory.  The  bane  and  anti- 
124 


WITCHES,   AND   NIGHT   FEARS 

dote  were  both  before  you.  To  doubts  so  put,  and 
so  quashed,  there  seemed  to  be  an  end  for  ever.  The 
dragon  lay  dead,  for  the  foot  of  the  veriest  babe  to 
trample  on.  But — hke  as  was  rather  feared  than 
realized  from  that  slain  monster  in  Spenser — from 
the  womb  of  those  crushed  errors  young  dragonets 
would  creep,  exceeding  the  prowess  of  so  tender  a 
Saint  George  as  myself  to  vanquish.  The  habit  of 
expecting  objections  to  every  passage  set  me  upon 
starting  more  objections,  for  the  glory  of  finding  a 
solution  of  my  own  for  them.  I  became  staggered 
and  perplexed,  a  sceptic  in  long-coats.  The  pretty 
Bible  stories  which  I  had  read,  or  heard  read  in 
church,  lost  their  purity  and  sincerity  of  impression, 
and  were  turned  into  so  many  historic  or  chrono- 
logic theses  to  be  defended  against  whatever  im- 
pugners.  I  was  not  to  disbelieve  them,  but — the 
next  thing  to  that — I  was  to  be  quite  sure  that 
some  one  or  other  would  or  had  disbelieved  them. 
Next  to  making  a  child  an  infidel  is  the  letting  him 
know  that  there  are  infidels  at  all.  Credulity  is  the 
man's  weakness,  but  the  child's  strength.  O,  how 
ugly  sound  scriptural  doubts  from  the  mouth  of  a 
babe  and  a  suckling! — I  should  have  lost  myself 
in  these  mazes,  and  have  pined  away,  I  think,  with 
such  unfit  sustenance  as  these  husks  afforded,  but 
for  a  fortunate  piece  of  ill-fortune  which  about  this 
time  befel  me.  Turning  over  the  picture  of  the  ark 
with  too  much  haste,  I  unhappily  made  a  breach 
in  its  ingenious  fabric — driving  my  inconsiderate 

125 


THE   ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

fingers  right  through  the  two  larger  quadrupeds, 
the  elephant  and  the  camel,  that  stare  (as  well  they 
might)  out  of  the  two  last  windows  next  the  steer- 
age in  that  unique  piece  of  naval  architecture.  Stack- 
house  was  henceforth  locked  up,  and  became  an  in- 
terdicted treasure.  With  the  book,  the  objections  and 
solutions  gradually  cleared  out  of  my  head,  and  have 
seldom  returned  since  in  any  force  to  trouble  me. 
But  there  was  one  impression  which  I  had  imbibed 
from  Stackhouse  which  no  lock  or  bar  could  shut 
out,  and  which  was  destined  to  try  my  childish  nerves 
rather  more  seriously. — That  detestable  picture! 

I  was  dreadfully  ahve  to  nervous  terrors.  The 
night-time,  solitude,  and  the  dark,  were  my  hell. 
The  sufferings  I  endured  in  this  nature  would  jus- 
tify the  expression.  I  never  laid  my  head  on  my 
pillow,  I  suppose,  from  the  fourth  to  the  seventh  or 
eighth  year  of  my  life — so  far  as' memory  serves  in 
things  so  long  ago — without  an  assurance,  which 
realized  its  own  prophecy,  of  seeing  some  frightful 
spectre.  Be  old  Stackhouse  then  acquitted  in  part, 
if  I  say,  that  to  this  picture  of  the  Witch  raising 
up  Samuel — (O  that  old  man  covered  with  a  man- 
tle!)— I  owe — not  my  midnight  terrors,  the  hell 
of  my  infancy — but  the  shape  and  manner  of  their 
visitation.  It  was  he  who  dressed  up  for  me  a  hag 
that  nightly  sate  upon  my  pillow — a  sure  bedfel- 
low, when  my  aunt  or  my  maid  was  far  from  me. 
All  day  long,  while  the  book  was  permitted  me,  I 
dreamed  waking  over  his  delineation,  and  at  night 
126 


WITCHES,   AND   NIGHT   FEARS 

(if  I  may  use  so  bold  an  expression)  awoke  into 
sleep,  and  found  the  vision  true.  I  durst  not,  even  in 
the  day-light,  once  enter  the  chamber  where  I  slept, 
without  my  face  turned  to  the  window,  aversely 
from  the  bed  where  my  witch-ridden  pillow  was. 
Parents  do  not  know  what  they  do  when  they  leave 
tender  babes  alone  to  go  to  sleep  in  the  dark.  The 
feeling  about  for  a  friendly  arm — the  hoping  for  a 
familiar  voice — when  they  wake  screaming — and 
find  none  to  soothe  them — what  a  terrible  shaking 
it  is  to  their  poor  nerves !  The  keeping  them  up  till 
midnight,  through  candle-light  and  the  unwhole- 
some hours,  as  they  are  called, — would,  I  am  satis- 
fied, in  a  medical  point  of  view,  prove  the  better 
caution. — That  detestable  picture,  as  I  have  said, 
gave  the  fashion  to  my  dreams — if  dreams  they 
were — for  the  scene  of  them  was  invariably  the 
room  in  which  I  lay.  Had  I  never  met  with  the  pic- 
ture, the  fears  would  have  come  self-pictured  in 
some  shape  or  other — 

Headless  bear,  black  man,  or  ape — 

but,  as  it  was,  my  imaginations  took  that  form. — 
It  is  not  book,  or  picture,  or  the  stories  of  foolish 
servants,  which  create  these  terrors  in  children.  They 
can  at  most  but  give  them  a  direction.  Dear  little 
T.  H.,  who  of  all  children  has  been  brought  up  with 
the  most  scrupulous  exclusion  of  every  taint  of  su- 
perstition— who  was  never  allowed  to  hear  of  goblin 
or  apparition,  or  scarcely  to  be  told  of  bad  men,  or  to 

127 


THE  ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

read  or  hear  of  any  distressing  story  —  finds  all  this 
world  of  fear,  from  which  he  has  been  so  rigidly  ex- 
cluded ab  extra,  in  his  own  "thick-coming  fancies"; 
and  from  his  little  midnight  pillow,  this  nurse-child 
of  optimism  will  start  at  shapes,  unborrowed  of  tra- 
dition, in  sweats  to  which  the  reveries  of  the  cell- 
damned  murderer  are  tranquillity.     . 

Gorgons,  and  Hydras,  and  Chimaeras  dire— sto- 
ries of  Celseno  and  the  Harpies —  way  reproduce 
themselves  in  the  brain  of  superstition — but  they 
were  there  before.  They  are  transcripts,  types — the 
archetypes  are  in  us,  and  eternal.  How  else  should 
the  recital  of  that,  which  we  know  in  a  waking  sense 
to  be  false,  come  to  affect  us  at  all? — or 

— Names,  whose  sense  we  see  not. 
Fray  us  with  things  that  be  not? 

Is  it  that  we  naturally  conceive  terror  from  such 
objects,  considered  in  their  capacity  of  being  able 
to  inflict  upon  us  bodily  injury? — O,  least  of  all! 
These  terrors  are  of  older  standing.  They  date  be- 
yond body — or,  without  the  body,  they  would  have 
been  the  same.  All  the  cruel,  tormenting,  defined 
devils  in  Dante — tearing,  mangling,  choking,  sti- 
fling, scorching  demons — are  they  one  half  so  fear- 
ful to  the  spirit  of  a  man,  as  the  simple  idea  of  a 
spirit  unembodied  following  him  — 

Like  one  that  on  a  lonesome  road 
Doth  walk  in  fear  and  dread, 
And  having  once  tum'd  round,  walks  on 
128 


WITCHES,   AND   NIGHT   FEARS 

And  turns  no  more  his  head; 
Because  he  knows  a  frightful  fiend 
Doth  close  behind  him  tread.^ 

That  the  kind  of  fear  here  treated  of  is  purely 
spiritual — that  it  is  strong  in  proportion  as  it  is 
objectless  upon  earth — that  it  predominates  in  the 
period  of  sinless  infancy — are  difficulties,  the  solu- 
tion of  which  might  afford  some  probable  insight 
into  our  ante-mundane  condition,  and  a  peep  at 
least  into  the  shadowland  of  pre-existence. 

My  night  fancies  have  long  ceased  to  be  afflictive. 
I  confess  an  occasional  nightmare ;  but  I  do  not,  as 
in  early  youth,  keep  a  stud  of  them.  Fiendish  faces, 
with  the  extinguished  taper,  will  come  and  look  at 
me;  but  I  know  them  for  mockeries,  even  while  I 
cannot  elude  their  presence,  and  I  fight  and  grapple 
with  them.  For  the  credit  of  my  imagination,  I  am 
almost  ashamed  to  say  how  tame  and  prosaic  my 
dreams  are  grown.  They  are  never  romantic,  seldom 
even  rural.  They  are  of  architecture  and  of  buildings 
—  cities  abroad,  which  I  have  never  seen  and  hardly 
have  hoped  to  see.  I  have  traversed,  for  the  seeming 
length  of  a  natural  day,  Rome,  Amsterdam,  Paris, 
Lisbon — their  churches,  palaces,  squares,  market- 
places, shops,  suburbs,  ruins,  with  an  inexpressible 
sense  of  delight — a  map-like  distinctness  of  trace, 
and  a  day-light  vividness  of  vision,  that  was  all  but 
being  awake.  —  I  have  formerly  travelled  among  the 
Westmoreland  fells — my  highest  Alps, — but  they 

*  Mr.  Coleridge's  Ancient  Mariner. 

129 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

are  objects  too  mighty  for  the  grasp  of  my  dream- 
ing recognition ;  and  I  have  again  and  again  awoke 
with  ineffectual  struggles  of  the  inner  eye,  to  make 
out  a  shape,  in  any  way  whatever,  of  Helvellyn. 
Methought  I  was  in  that  country,  but  the  moun- 
tains were  gone.  The  poverty  of  my  dreams  mortifies 
me.  There  is  Coleridge,  at  his  will  can  conjure  up  icy 
domes,  and  pleasure-houses  for  Kubla  Khan,  and 
Abyssinian  maids,  and  songs  of  Abara,  and  caverns, 

Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  runs, 

to  solace  his  night  solitudes — when  I  cannot  mus- 
ter a  fiddle.  Barry  Cornwall  has  his  tritons  and  his 
nereids  gamboling  before  him  in  nocturnal  visions, 
and  proclaiming  sons  born  to  Neptune — when  my 
stretch  of  imaginative  activity  can  hardly,  in  the 
night  season,  raise  up  the  ghost  of  a  fish-wife.  To 
set  my  failures  in  somewhat  a  mortifying  light — it 
was  after  reading  the  noble  Dream  of  this  poet,  that 
my  fancy  ran  strong  upon  these  marine  spectra ;  and 
the  poor  plastic  power,  such  as  it  is,  within  me  set 
to  work  to  humour  my  folly  in  a  sort  of  dream  that 
very  night.'  Methought  I  was  upon  the  ocean  bil- 
lows at  some  sea  nuptials,  riding  and  mounted  high, 
with  the  customary  train  sounding  their  conchs  be- 
fore me,  (I  myself,  you  may  be  sure,  the  leading 
god),  and  joUily  we  went  careering  over  the  main, 
till  just  where  Ino  Leucothea  should  have  greeted 
me  (I  think  it  was  Ino)  with  a  white  embrace,  the 
billows  gradually  subsiding,  fell  from  a  sea  rough- 
130 


WITCHES,   AND   NIGHT   FEARS 

ness  to  a  sea  calm,  and  thence  to  a  river  motion, 
and  that  river  (as  happens  in  the  famiharization  of 
dreams)  was  no  other  than  the  gentle  Thames, 
which  landed  me,  in  the  wafture  of  a  placid  wave  or 
two,  alone,  safe  and  inglorious,  somewhere  at  the 
foot  of  Lambeth  palace. 

The  degree  of  the  soul's  creativeness  in  sleep 
might  furnish  no  whimsical  criterion  of  the  quan- 
tum of  poetical  faculty  resident  in  the  same  soul 
waking.  An  old  gentleman,  a  friend  of  mine,  and 
a  humorist,  used  to  carry  this  notion  so  far,  that 
when  he  saw  any  stripling  of  his  acquaintance  am- 
bitious of  becoming  a  poet,  his  first  question  would 
be, — "Young  man,  what  sort  of  dreams  have  you  ?" 
I  have  so  much  faith  in  my  old  friend's  theory,  that 
when  I  feel  that  idle  vein  returning  upon  me,  I 
presently  subside  into  my  proper  element  of  prose, 
remembering  those  eluding  nereids,  and  that  inaus- 
picious uiland  landing. 


131 


VALENTINE'S   DAY 

HAIL  to  thy  returning  festival,  old  Bishop  Val- 
entine !  Great  is  thy  name  in  the  rubric,  thou 
venerable  Arch-flamen  of  Hymen!  Immortal  Go- 
between  !  who  and  what  manner  of  person  art  thou  ? 
Art  thou  but  a  name,  typifying  the  restless  princi- 
ple which  impels  poor  humans  to  seek  perfection  in 
union  ?  or  wert  thou  indeed  a  mortal  prelate,  with 
thy  tippet  and  thy  rochet,  thy  apron  on,  and  de- 
cent lawn  sleeves  ?  Mysterious  personage !  Like  unto 
thee,  assuredly,  there  is  no  other  mitred  father  in 
the  calendar ;  not  Jerome,  nor  Ambrose,  nor  Cyril ; 
nor  the  consigner  of  undipt  infants  to  eternal  tor- 
ments, Austin,  whom  all  mothers  hate ;  nor  he  who 
hated  all  mothers,  Origen;  nor  Bishop  Bull,  nor 
Archbishop  Parker,  nor  Whitgift.  Thou  comest  at- 
tended with  thousands  and  ten  thousands  of  little 
Loves,  and  the  air  is 

Brush'd  with  the  hiss  of  rustUng  wings. 

Singing  Cupids  are  thy  choristers  and  thy  precen- 
tors ;  and  instead  of  the  crosier,  the  mystical  arrow 
is  borne  before  thee. 

In  other  words,  this  is  the  day  on  which  those 
charming  little  missives,  ycleped  Valentines,  cross 
and  intercross  each  other  at  every  street  and  turn- 
ing. The  weary  and  all  forspent  twopenny  postman 
sinks  beneath  a  load  of  dehcate  embarrassments,  not 
132 


VALENTINE'S   DAY 

his  own.  It  is  scarcely  credible  to  what  an  extent 
this  ephemeral  courtship  is  carried  on  in  this  lov- 
ing town,  to  the  great  enrichment  of  porters,  and 
detriment  of  knockers  and  bell-wires.  In  these  little 
visual  interpretations,  no  emblem  is  so  common  as 
the  heart, — that  little  three-cornered  exponent  of 
all  our  hopes  and  fears, — the  bestuck  and  bleeding 
heart ;  it  is  twisted  and  tortured  into  more  allegories 
and  affectations  than  an  opera  hat.  What  authority 
we  have  in  history  or  mythology  for  placing  the 
headquarters  and  metropolis  of  god  Cupid  in  this 
anatomical  seat  rather  than  in  any  other,  is  not  very 
clear;  but  we  have  got  it,  and  it  will  serve  as  well 
as  any  other.  Else  we  might  easily  imagine,  upon 
some  other  system  which  might  have  prevailed  for 
anything  which  our  pathology  knows  to  the  con- 
trary, a  lover  addressing  his  mistress,  in  perfect  sim- 
plicity of  feeling,  "Madam,  my  liver  and  fortune 
are  entirely  at  your  disposal";  or  putting  a  delicate 
question,  "Amanda,  have  you  a  midriff  to  bestow?" 
But  custom  has  settled  these  things,  and  awarded 
the  seat  of  sentiment  to  the  aforesaid  triangle,  while 
its  less  fortunate  neighbours  wait  at  animal  and 
anatomical  distance. 

Not  many  sounds  in  life,  and  I  include  all  urban 
and  all  rural  sounds,  exceed  in  interest  a  knock  at 
the  door.  It  "gives  a  very  echo  to  the  throne  where 
Hope  is  seated."  But  its  issues  seldom  answer  to 
this  oracle  within.  It  is  so  seldom  that  just  the  per- 
son we  want  to  see  comes.  But  of  all  the  clamorous 

133 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

visitations  the  welcomest  in  expectation  is  the  sound 
that  ushers  in,  or  seems  to  usher  in,  a  Valentine.  As 
the  raven  himself  was  hoarse  that  announced  the 
fatal  entrance  of  Duncan,  so  the  knock  of  the  post- 
man on  this  day  is  light,  airy,  confident,  and  be- 
fitting one  that  bringeth  good  tidings.  It  is  less 
mechanical  than  on  other  days ;  you  will  say,  "  That 
is  not  the  post,  I  am  sure."  Visions  of  Love,  of 
Cupids,  of  Hymens! — delightful  eternal  common- 
places, which  "having  been  will  always  be";  which 
no  schoolboy  nor  schoolman  can  write  away ;  having 
your  irreversible  throne  in  the  fancy  and  affections 
— what  are  your  transports,  when  the  happy  maiden, 
opening  with  careful  finger,  careful  not  to  break  the 
emblematic  seal,  bursts  upon  the  sight  of  some  well- 
designed  allegory,  some  type,  some  youthful  fancy, 
not  without  verses — 

Lovers  all, 
A  madrigal, 

or  some  such  device,  not  over-abundant  in  sense — 
young  Love  disclaims  it, — and  not  quite  silly — 
something  between  wind  and  water,  a  chorus  where 
the  sheep  might  almost  join  the  shepherd,  as  they 
did,  or  as  I  apprehend  they  did,  in  Arcadia. 

All  Valentines  are  not  foolish;  and  I  shall  not 
easily  forget  thine,  my  kind  friend  (if  I  may  have 

leave  to  call  you  so)  E.  B .  E.  B.  lived  opposite 

a  young  maiden  whom  he  had  often  seen,  unseen, 

from  his  parlour  window  in  C e  Street.  She  was 

134 


VALENTINE'S   DAY 

all  joyoiisness  and  innocence,  and  just  of  an  age  to 
enjoy  receiving  a  Valentine,  and  just  of  a  temper  to 
bear  the  disappointment  of  missing  one  with  good 
humour.  E.  B.  is  an  artist  of  no  common  powers; 
in  the  fancy  parts  of  designing,  perhaps  inferior  to 
none ;  his  name  is  known  at  the  bottom  of  many  a 
well-executed  vignette  in  the  way  of  his  profession, 
but  no  further ;  for  E.  B.  is  modest,  and  the  world 
meets  nobody  half  way.  E.  B.  meditated  how  he 
could  repay  this  young  maiden  for  many  a  favour 
which  she  had  done  him  unknown;  for  when  a 
kindly  face  greets  us,  though  but  passing  by,  and 
never  knows  us  again,  nor  we  it,  we  should  feel  it 
as  an  obligation:  and  E.  B.  did.  This  good  artist 
set  himself  at  work  to  please  the  damsel.  It  was 
just  before  Valentine's  day  three  years  since.  He 
wrought,  unseen  and  unsuspected,  a  wondrous  work. 
We  need  not  say  it  was  on  the  finest  gilt  paper  with 
borders — full,  not  of  common  hearts  and  heartless 
allegory,  but  aU  the  prettiest  stories  of  love  from 
Ovid,  and  older  poets  than  Ovid  (for  E.  B.  is  a 
scholar).  There  was  Pyramus  and  Thisbe,  and  be 
sure  Dido  was  not  forgot,  nor  Hero  and  Leander, 
and  swans  more  than  sang  in  Cayster,  with  mottoes 
and  fanciful  devices,  such  as  beseemed — a  work,  in 
short,  of  magic.  Iris  dipt  the  woof  This  on  Valen- 
tine s  eve  he  commended  to  the  all-swallowing  in- 
discriminate orifice  (O  ignoble  trust!)  of  the  com- 
mon post;  but  the  humble  medium  did  its  duty, 
and  from  his  watchful  stand  the  next  morning  he 

135 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

saw  the  cheerful  messenger  knock,  and  by-and-by 
the  precious  charge  delivered.  He  saw,  unseen,  the 
happy  girl  unfold  the  Valentine,  dance  about,  clap 
her  hands,  as  one  after  one  the  pretty  emblems  un- 
folded themselves.  She  danced  about,  not  with  light 
love,  or  foolish  expectations,  for  she  had  no  lover; 
or,  if  she  had,  none  she  knew  that  could  have  cre- 
ated those  bright  images  which  delighted  her.  It 
was  more  like  some  fairy  present;  a  God-send,  as 
our  familiarly  pious  ancestors  termed  a  benefit  re- 
ceived where  the  benefactor  was  unknown.  It  would 
do  her  no  harm.  It  would  do  her  good  for  ever  after. 
It  is  good  to  love  the  unknown.  I  only  give  this  as 
a  specimen  of  E.  B.  and  his  modest  way  of  doing  a 
concealed  kindness. 

Good  morrow  to  my  Valentine,  sings  poor  Ophe- 
lia; and  no  better  wish,  but  with  better  auspices,  we 
wish  to  all  faithful  lovers,  who  are  not  too  wise  to 
despise  old  legends,  but  are  content  to  rank  them- 
selves humble  diocesans  of  old  Bishop  Valentine 
and  his  true  church. 


136 


MY  RELATIONS 

I  AM  arrived  at  that  point  of  life,  at  which  a  man 
may  account  it  a  blessing,  as  it  is  a  singularity, 
if  he  have  either  of  his  parents  surviving.  I  have 
not  that  felicity — and  sometimes  think  feelingly  of 
a  passage  in  "Browne's  Christian  Morals,"  where  he 
speaks  of  a  man  that  hath  lived  sixty  or  seventy 
years  in  the  world.  "In  such  a  compass  of  time," 
he  says,  "a  man  may  have  a  close  apprehension 
what  it  is  to  be  forgotten,  when  he  hath  lived  to  find 
none  who  could  remember  his  father,  or  scarcely 
the  friends  of  his  youth,  and  may  sensibly  see  with 
what  a  face  in  no  long  time  Oblivion  will  look 
upon  himself." 

I  had  an  aunt,  a  dear  and  good  one.  She  was  one 
whom  single  blessedness  had  soured  to  the  world. 
She  often  used  to  say,  that  I  was  the  only  thing  in 
it  which  she  loved;  and,  when  she  thought  I  was 
quitting  it,  she  grieved  over  me  with  mother's  tears. 
A  partiality  quite  so  exclusive  my  reason  cannot  al- 
together approve.  She  was  from  morning  till  night 
poring  over  good  books  and  devotional  exercises. 
Her  favourite  volumes  were  Thomas  a  Kempis, 
in  Stanhope's  translation ;  and  a  Roman  Catholic 
Prayer  Book,  with  the  matins  and  coviplines  regu- 
larly set  down  —  tenns  which  I  was  at  that  time  too 
young  to  understand.  She  persisted  in  reading  them, 
although  admonished  daily  concerning  their  Papis- 

137 


THE   ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

tical  tendency;  and  went  to  church  every  Sabbath, 
as  a  good  Protestant  should  do.  These  were  the  only 
books  she  studied ;  though,  I  think,  at  one  period  of 
her  life,  she  told  me,  she  had  read  with  great  satis- 
faction the  ''Adventures  of  an  Unfortunate  Young 
Nobleman."  Finding  the  door  of  the  chapel  in  Essex 
Street  open  one  day — it  was  in  the  infancy  of  that 
heresy — she  went  in,  liked  the  sermon,  and  the 
manner  of  worship,  and  frequented  it  at  intervals 
for  some  time  after.  She  came  not  for  doctrinal 
points,  and  never  missed  them.  With  some  little 
asperities  in  her  constitution,  which  I  have  above 
hinted  at,  she  was  a  steadfast,  friendly  being,  and  a 
fine  old  Christian.  She  was  a  woman  of  strong  sense, 
and  a  shrewd  mind — extraordinary  at  a  repartee; 
one  of  the  few  occasions  of  her  breaking  silence — 
else  she  did  not  much  value  wit.  The  only  secular 
employment  I  remember  to  have  seen  her  engaged 
in,  was  the  splitting  of  French  beans,  and  dropping 
them  into  a  china  basin  of  fair  water.  The  odour  of 
those  tender  vegetables  to  this  day  comes  back  upon 
my  sense,  redolent  of  soothing  recollections.  Cer- 
tainly it  is  the  most  delicate  of  culinary  operations. 
Male  aunts,  as  somebody  calls  them,  I  had  none 
— to  remember.  By  the  uncle's  side  I  may  be  said 
to  have  been  born  an  orphan.  Brother,  or  sister,  I 
never  had  any — to  know  them.  A  sister,  I  think, 
that  should  have  been  Elizabeth,  died  in  both  our 
infancies.  What  a  comfort,  or  what  a  care,  may  I  not 
have  missed  in  her! — But  I  have  cousins  sprinkled 
138 


MY  RELATIONS 

about  in  Hertfordshire — besides  two^  with  whom  I 
have  been  all  my  life  in  habits  of  the  closest  inti- 
macy, and  whom  I  may  term  cousins  ^^ar  excellence. 
These  are  James  and  Bridget  Elia.  They  are  older 
than  myself  by  twelve,  and  ten,  years;  and  neither 
of  them  seems  disposed,  in  matters  of  advice  and 
guidance,  to  waive  any  of  the  prerogatives  which 
primogeniture  confers.  May  they  continue  still  in 
the  same  mind ;  and  when  they  shall  be  seventy-five, 
and  seventy-three,  years  old  (I  cannot  spare  them 
sooner),  persist  in  treating  me  in  my  grand  climac- 
teric precisely  as  a  stripling,  or  younger  brother ! 

James  is  an  inexplicable  cousin.  Nature  hath  her 
unities,  which  not  every  critic  can  penetrate;  or,  if 
we  feel,  we  cannot  explain  them.  The  pen  of  Yorick, 
and  of  none  since  his,  could  have  drawn  J.  E.  entire 
— those  fine  Shandean  lights  and  shades,  which 
make  up  his  story.  I  must  limp  after  in  my  poor 
antithetical  manner,  as  the  fates  have  given  me 
grace  and  talent.  J.  E.  then — to  the  eye  of  a  com- 
mon observer  at  least — seemeth  made  up  of  con- 
tradictory principles.  The  genuine  child  of  impulse, 
the  frigid  philosopher  of  prudence — the  phlegm  of 
my  cousin's  doctrine,  is  invariably  at  war  with  his 
temperament,  which  is  high  sanguine.  With  always 
some  fire-new  project  in  his  brain,  J.  E.  is  the  sys- 
tematic opponent  of  innovation,  and  crier  down  of 
everything  that  has  not  stood  the  test  of  age  and 
experiment.  With  a  hundred  fine  notions  chasing 
one  another  hourly  in  his  fancy,  he  is  startled  at 

139 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

the  least  approach  to  the  romantic  in  others;  and, 
determined  by  his  own  sense  in  everything,  com- 
mends you  to  the  guidance  of  common  sense  on  all 
occasions. — With  a  touch  of  the  eccentric  in  all 
which  he  does  or  says,  he  is  only  anxious  that  you 
should  not  commit  yourself  by  doing  anything  ab- 
surd or  singular.  On  my  once  letting  slip  at  table, 
that  I  was  not  fond  of  a  certain  popular  dish,  he 
begged  me  at  any  rate  not  to  say  so — for  the  world 
would  think  me  mad.  He  disguises  a  passionate 
fondness  for  works  of  high  art  (whereof  he  hath 
amassed  a  choice  collection),  under  the  pretext  of 
buying  only  to  sell  again — that  his  enthusiasm  may 
give  no  encouragement  to  yours.  Yet,  if  it  were  so, 
why  does  that  piece  of  tender,  pastoral  Domenichino 
hang  still  by  his  wall  ? — is  the  ball  of  his  sight  much 
more  dear  to  him  ? — or  what  picture-dealer  can  talk 
like  him  ? 

Whereas  mankind  in  general  are  observed  to 
warp  their  speculative  conclusions  to  the  bent  of 
their  individual  humours,  his  theories  are  sure  to  be 
in  diametrical  opposition  to  his  constitution.  He  is 
courageous  as  Charles  of  Sweden,  upon  instinct; 
chary  of  his  person  upon  principle,  as  a  travelling 
Quaker.  He  has  been  preaching  up  to  me,  all  my 
life,  the  doctrine  of  bowing  to  the  great — the  neces- 
sity of  forms,  and  manner,  to  a  man's  getting  on  in 
the  world.  He  himself  never  aims  at  either,  that  I 
can  discover, — and  has  a  spirit  that  would  stand 
upright  in  the  presence  of  the  Cham  of  Tartary.  It 
140 


MY   RELATIONS 

is  pleasant  to  hear  him  discourse  of  patience — ex- 
tolHng  it  as  the  truest  wisdom — and  to  see  him  dur- 
ing the  last  seven  minutes  that  his  dinner  is  getting 
ready.  Nature  never  ran  up  in  her  haste  a  more  rest- 
less piece  of  workmanship  than  when  she  moulded 
this  impetuous  cousin— and  Art  never  turned  out  a 
more  elaborate  orator  than  he  can  display  himself 
to  be,  upon  his  favourite  topic  of  the  advantages  of 
quiet  and  contentedness  in  the  state,  whatever  it 
be,  that  we  are  placed  in.  He  is  triumphant  on  this 
theme,  when  he  has  you  safe  in  one  of  those  short 
stages  that  ply  for  the  western  road,  in  a  very  ob- 
structing manner,  at  the  foot  of  John  IMurray's 
Street — where  you  get  in  when  it  is  empty,  and 
are  expected  to  wait  till  the  vehicle  hath  completed 
her  just  freight — a  trying  three  quarters  of  an  hour 
to  some  people.  He  wonders  at  your  fidgetiness, — 
"where  could  we  be  better  than  we  are,  thus  sittings 
thus  consulting?'' — "prefers,  for  his  part,  a  state  of 
rest  to  locomotion," — with  an  eye  all  the  while 
upon  the  coachman, — till  at  length,  waxing  out  of 
all  patience,  at  your  want  of  it,  he  breaks  out  into 
a  pathetic  remonstrance  at  the  fellow  for  detaining 
us  so  long  over  the  time  which  he  had  professed, 
and  declares  peremptorily,  that  "the  gentleman  in 
the  coach  is  determined  to  get  out,  if  he  does  not 
drive  on  that  instant." 

Very  quick  at  inventing  an  argument,  or  detect- 
ing a  sophistry,  he  is  incapable  of  attending  you  in 
any  chain  of  arguing.  Indeed,  he  makes  wild  work 

141 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

with  logic;  and  seems  to  jump  at  most  admirable 
conclusions  by  some  process  not  at  all  akin  to  it. 
Consonantly  enough  to  this,  he  hath  been  heard  to 
deny,  upon  certain  occasions,  that  there  exists  such 
a  faculty  at  all  in  man  as  i^eason;  and  wondereth 
how  man  came  first  to  have  a  conceit  of  it — en- 
forcing his  negation  with  all  the  might  of  reasoning 
he  is  master  of  He  has  some  speculative  notions 
against  laughter,  and  will  maintain  that  laughing  is 
not  natural  to  him — when  perad venture  the  next 
moment  his  lungs  shall  crow  like  Chanticleer.  He 
says  some  of  the  best  things  in  the  world,  and  de- 
clareth  that  wit  is  his  aversion.  It  was  he  who  said, 
upon  seeing  the  Eton  boys  at  play  in  their  grounds 
—  What  a  pity  to  think  that  these  fine  ingenuous 
lads  in  a  few  years  will  all  be  changed  into  frivolous 
Members  of  Parliament  I 

His  youth  was  fiery,  glowing,  tempestuous — and 
in  age  he  discovereth  no  symptom  of  cooling.  This 
is  that  which  I  admire  in  him.  I  hate  people  who 
meet  Time  half  way.  I  am  for  no  compromise  with 
that  inevitable  spoiler.  While  he  lives,  J.  E.  will 
take  his  swing. — It  does  me  good,  as  I  walk  towards 
the  street  of  my  daily  avocation,  on  some  fine  May 
morning,  to  meet  him  marching  in  a  quite  opposite 
direction,  with  a  jolly  handsome  presence,  and  shin- 
ing sanguine  face,  that  indicates  some  purchase  in 
his  eye — a  Claude— or  a  Hobbima — for  much  of 
his  enviable  leisure  is  consumed  at  Christie's  and 
Phillips's — or  where  not,  to  pick  up  pictures,  and 
142 


MY   RELATIONS 

such  gauds.  On  these  occasions  he  mostly  stoppeth 
me,  to  read  a  short  lecture  on  the  advantage  a  per- 
son like  me  possesses  above  himself,  in  having  his 
time  occupied  with  business  which  he  must  do — 
assureth  me  that  he  often  feels  it  hang  heavy  on 
his  hands — wishes  he  had  fewer  holidays — and  goes 
oif — Westward  Ho ! — chanting  a  tune,  to  Pall  Mall 
— perfectly  convinced  that  he  has  convinced  me — 
while  I  proceed  in  my  opposite  direction  tuneless. 

It  is  pleasant,  again,  to  see  this  Professor  of  In- 
difference doing  the  honours  of  his  new  purchase, 
when  he  has  fairly  housed  it.  You  must  view  it  in 
every  light,  till  he  has  found  the  best — placing  it 
at  this  distance,  and  at  that,  but  always  suiting  the 
focus  of  your  sight  to  his  own.  You  must  spy  at  it 
through  your  fingers,  to  catch  the  aerial  perspec- 
tive— though  you  assure  him  that  to  you  the  land- 
scape shows  much  more  agreeable  without  that 
artifice.  Woe  be  to  the  luckless  wight  who  does  not 
only  not  respond  to  his  rapture,  but  who  should 
drop  an  unseasonable  intimation  of  preferring  one 
of  his  anterior  bargains  to  the  present!  —  The  last 
is  always  his  best  hit — his  "Cynthia  of  the  minute." 
— Alas!  how  many  a  mild  Madonna  have  I  known 
to  come  in — a  Raphael! — keep  its  ascendency  for  a 
few  brief  moons — then,  after  certain  intermedial 
degradations,  from  the  front  drawing-room  to  the 
back  gallery,  thence  to  the  dark  parlour, — adopted 
in  turn  by  each  of  the  Carracci,  under  successive 
lowering  ascriptions  of  filiation,  mildly  breaking  its 

143 


THE   ESSAYS    OF   ELIA 

fall — consigned  to  the  oblivious  lumber-room,  go 
out  at  last  a  Lucca  Giordano,  or  plain  Carlo  Maratti ! 
— which  things  when  I  beheld — musing  upon  the 
chances  and  mutabilities  of  fate  below  hath  made 
me  to  reflect  upon  the  altered  condition  of  great 
personages,  or  that  woeful  Queen  of  Richard  the 
Second — 

set  forth  in  pomp, 

She  came  adorned  hither  hke  sweet  May; 
Sent  back  like  Hallowmass  or  shortest  day. 

With  great  love  for  you,  J.  E.  hath  but  a  limited 
sympathy  with  what  you  feel  or  do.  He  lives  in  a 
world  of  his  own,  and  makes  slender  guesses  at  what 
passes  in  your  mind.  He  never  pierces  the  marrow 
of  your  habits.  He  will  tell  an  old  established  play- 
goer, that  Mr.  Such-a-one,  of  So-and-so  (naming 
one  of  the  theatres),  is  a  very  lively  comedian — as  a 
piece  of  news !  He  advertised  me  but  the  other  day 
of  some  pleasant  green  lanes  which  he  had  found 
out  for  me,  knowing  me  to  be  a  great  walker^  in  my 
own  immediate  vicinity — who  have  haunted  the 
identical  spot  any  time  these  twenty  years! — He 
has  not  much  respect  for  that  class  of  feelings  which 
goes  by  the  name  of  sentimental.  He  applies  the 
definition  of  real  evil  to  bodily  sufferings  exclusively 
— and  rejecteth  all  others  as  imaginary.  He  is  af- 
fected by  the  sight,  or  the  bare  supposition,  of  a 
creature  in  pain,  to  a  degree  which  I  have  never  wit- 
nessed out  of  womankind.  A  constitutional  acute- 
ness  to  this  class  of  sufferings  may  in  part  account 
144 


MY   RELATIONS 

for  this.  The  animal  tribe  in  particular  he  taketh 
under  his  especial  protection.  A  broken-winded  or 
spur-galled  horse  is  sure  to  find  an  advocate  in  him. 
An  over-loaded  ass  is  his  client  for  ever.  He  is  the 
apostle  to  the  brute  kind — the  never-failing  friend 
of  those  who  have  none  to  care  for  them.  The  con- 
templation of  a  lobster  boiled,  or  eels  skinned  alivei 
will  wring  him  so,  that  "all  for  pity  he  could  die." 
It  will  take  the  savour  from  his  palate,  and  the  rest 
from  his  pillow,  for  days  and  nights.  With  the  in- 
tense feeling  of  Thomas  Clarkson,  he  wanted  only 
the  steadiness  of  pursuit,  and  unity  of  purpose,  of 
that  "true  yoke-fellow  with  Time,"  to  have  effected 
as  much  for  the  Animal  as  he  hath  done  for  the 
Negro  Creation.  But  my  uncontrollable  cousin  is 
but  imperfectly  formed  for  purposes  which  demand 
co-operation.  He  cannot  wait.  His  amelioration- 
plans  must  be  ripened  in  a  day.  For  this  reason  he 
has  cut  but  an  equivocal  figure  in  benevolent  socie- 
ties, and  combinations  for  the  alleviation  of  human 
sufferings.  His  zeal  constantly  makes  him  to  outrun, 
and  put  out,  his  coadjutors.  He  thinks  of  relieving, — 
while  they  think  of  debating.  He  was  black-balled 
out  of  a  society  for  the  Relief  of  *  "^  ^  *  because  the 
fervour  of  his  humanity  toiled  beyond  the  formal 
apprehension  and  creeping  processes  of  his  asso- 
ciates. I  shall  always  consider  this  distinction  as  a 
patent  of  nobility  in  the  Elia  family ! 

Do  I  mention  these  seeming  inconsistencies  to 
smile   at,  or   upbraid,  my  unique   cousin?  Marry, 

146 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

heaven,  and  all  good  manners,  and  the  understand- 
ing that  should  be  between  kinsfolk,  forbid! — With 
all  the  strangenesses  of  this  strangest  of  the  Elias — 
I  would  not  have  him  in  one  jot  or  tittle  other  than 
he  is;  neither  would  I  barter  or  exchange  my  wild 
kinsman  for  the  most  exact,  regular,  and  every  way 
consistent  kinsman  breathing. 

In  my  next,  reader,  I  may  perhaps  give  you  some 
account  of  my  cousin  Bridget — if  you  are  not  al- 
ready surfeited  with  cousins — and  take  you  by  the 
hand,  if  you  are  willing  to  go  with  us,  on  an  excur- 
sion which  we  made  a  summer  or  two  since,  in  search 
of  more  cousins — 

Through  the  green  plains  of  pleasant  Hertfordshire. 


146 


MACKERY  END 
IN   HERTFORDSHIRE 

BRIDGET  ELIA  has  been  my  housekeeper  for 
many  a  long  year.  I  have  obhgations  to  Bridget, 
extending  beyond  the  period  of  memory.  We  house 
together,  old  bachelor  and  maid,  in  a  sort  of  double 
singleness;  with  such  tolerable  comfort,  upon  the 
whole,  that  I,  for  one,  find  in  myself  no  sort  of  dis- 
position to  go  out  upon  the  mountains,  with  the 
rash  king's  offspring,  to  bewail  my  celibacy.  We 
agree  pretty  well  in  our  tastes  and  habits — yet  so,  as 
"with  a  difference."  We  are  generally  in  harmony, 
with  occasional  bickerings — as  it  should  be  among 
near  relations.  Our  sympathies  are  rather  under- 
stood than  expressed ;  and  once,  upon  my  dissem- 
bling a  tone  in  my  voice  more  kind  than  ordinary, 
my  cousin  burst  into  tears,  and  complained  that  I 
was  altered.  We  are  both  great  readers  in  different 
directions.  While  I  am  hanging  over  (for  the  thou- 
sandth time)  some  passage  in  old  Burton,  or  one 
of  his  strange  contemporaries,  she  is  abstracted  in 
some  modern  tale  or  adventure,  whereof  our  com- 
mon reading-table  is  daily  fed  with  assiduously  fresh 
supplies.  Narrative  teases  me.  I  have  little  concern 
in  the  progress  of  events.  She  must  have  a  story — 
well,  ill,  or  indifferently  told — so  there  be  life  stir- 
ring in  it,  and  plenty  of  good  or  evil  accidents.  The 
fluctuations  of  fortune  in  fiction — and  almost  in 

147 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

real  life — have  ceased  to  interest,  or  operate  but 
dully  upon  me.  Out-of-the-way  humours  and  opin- 
ions— heads  with  some  diverting  twist  in  them — 
the  oddities  of  authorship,  please  me  most.  My 
cousin  has  a  native  disrelish  of  anything  that  sounds 
odd  or  bizarre.  Nothing  goes  down  with  her  that  is 
quaint,  irregular,  or  out  of  the  road  of  common 
sympathy.  She  "holds  Nature  more  clever."  I  can 
pardon  her  blindness  to  the  beautiful  obliquities  of 
the  Religio  Medici ;  but  she  must  apologize  to  me 
for  certain  disrespectful  insinuations,  which  she  has 
been  pleased  to  throw  out  latterly,  touching  the  in- 
tellectuals of  a  dear  favourite  of  mine,  of  the  last 
century  but  one — the  thrice  noble,  chaste,  and  vir- 
tuous, but  again  somewhat  fantastical  and  original 
brained,  generous  Margaret  Newcastle. 

It  has  been  the  lot  of  my  cousin,  oftener  perhaps 
than  I  could  have  wished,  to  have  had  for  her  as- 
sociates and  mine,  free-thinkers — leaders,  and  dis- 
ciples, of  novel  philosophies  and  systems;  but  she 
neither  wrangles  with,  nor  accepts,  their  opinions. 
That  which  was  good  and  venerable  to  her,  when  a 
child,  retains  its  authority  over  her  mind  still.  She 
never  juggles  or  plays  tricks  with  her  understand- 
ing. 

We  are  both  of  us  inclined  to  be  a  little  too  posi- 
tive ;  and  I  have  observed  the  result  of  our  disputes 
to  be  almost  uniformly  this — that  in  matters  of 
fact,  dates,  and  circumstances,  it  turns  out  that  I 
was  in  the  right,  and  my  cousin  in  the  wrong.  But 
148 


MACKERY  END,  IN  HERTFORDSHIRE 

where  we  have  differed  upon  moral  points;  upon 
something  proper  to  be  done,  or  let  alone ;  whatever 
heat  of  opposition  or  steadiness  of  conviction  I  set 
out  with,  I  am  sure  always,  in  the  long-run,  to  be 
brought  over  to  her  way  of  thinking. 

I  must  touch  upon  the  foibles  of  my  kinswoman 
with  a  gentle  hand,  for  Bridget  does  not  like  to  be 
told  of  her  faults.  She  hath  an  awkward  trick  (to 
say  no  worse  of  it)  of  reading  in  company :  at  which 
times  she  will  answer  yes  or  no  to  a  question,  with- 
out fully  understanding  its  purport — which  is  pro- 
voking, and  derogatory  in  the  highest  degree  to  the 
dignity  of  the  putter  of  the  said  question.  Her 
presence  of  mind  is  equal  to  the  most  pressing  trials 
of  life,  but  will  sometimes  desert  her  upon  trifling 
occasions.  When  the  purpose  requires  it,  and  is  a 
thing  of  moment,  she  can  speak  to  it  greatly;  but 
in  matters  which  are  not  stuff  of  the  conscience, 
she  hath  been  known  sometimes  to  let  slip  a  word 
less  seasonably. 

Her  education  in  youth  was  not  much  attended 
to ;  and  she  happily  missed  all  that  train  of  female 
garniture  which  passeth  by  the  name  of  accomphsh- 
ments.  She  was  tumbled  early,  by  accident  or  de- 
sign, into  a  spacious  closet  of  good  old  English 
reading,  without  much  selection  or  prohibition,  and 
browsed  at  will  upon  that  fair  and  wholesome  pas- 
turage. Had  I  twenty  girls,  they  should  be  brought 
up  exactly  in  this  fashion.  I  know  not  whether  their 
chance  in  wedlock  might  not  be  diminished  by  it, 

149 


THE  ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

but  I  can  answer  for  it  that  it  makes  (if  the  worst 
come  to  the  worst)  most  incomparable  old  maids. 

In  a  season  of  distress,  she  is  the  truest  comforter; 
but  in  the  teasing  accidents  and  minor  perplexities, 
which  do  not  call  out  the  will  to  meet  them,  she 
sometimes  maketh  matters  worse  by  an  excess  of 
participation.  If  she  does  not  always  divide  your 
trouble,  upon  the  pleasanter  occasions  of  life  she  is 
sure  always  to  treble  your  satisfaction.  She  is  excel- 
lent to  be  at  a  play  with,  or  upon  a  visit;  but  best, 
when  she  goes  a  journey  with  you. 

We  made  an  excursion  together  a  few  summers 
since  into  Hertfordshire,  to  beat  up  the  quarters  of 
some  of  our  less-known  relations  in  that  fine  com 
country. 

The  oldest  thing  I  remember  is  Mackery  End,  or 
Mackarel  End,  as  it  is  spelt,  perhaps  more  properly, 
in  some  old  maps  of  Hertfordshire;  a  farm-house, 
— delightfully  situated  within  a  gentle  walk  from 
Wheathampstead.  I  can  just  remember  having  been 
there,  on  a  visit  to  a  great-aunt,  when  I  was  a  child, 
under  the  care  of  Bridget ;  who,  as  I  have  said,  is 
older  than  myself  by  some  ten  years.  I  wish  that  I 
could  throw  into  a  heap  the  remainder  of  our  joint 
existences,  that  we  might  share  them  in  equal  di- 
vision. But  that  is  impossible.  The  house  was  at  that 
time  in  the  occupation  of  a  substantial  yeoman, 
who  had  married  my  grandmother's  sister.  His  name 
was  Gladman.  My  grandmother  was  a  Bruton,  mar- 
ried to  a  Field.  The  Gladmans  and  the  Brutons  are 
150 


MACKERY  END,  IN  HERTFORDSHIRE 

still  flourishing  in  that  part  of  the  county,  but  the 
Fields  are  almost  extinct.  More  than  forty  years 
had  elapsed  since  the  visit  I  speak  of;  and,  for  the 
greater  portion  of  that  period,  we  had  lost  sight  of 
the  other  two  branches  also.  Who  or  what  sort  of 
persons  inherited  Mackery  End — kindred  or  strange 
folk — we  were  afraid  almost  to  conjecture,  but  de- 
termined some  day  to  explore. 

By  somewhat  a  circuitous  route,  taking  the  noble 
park  at  Luton  in  our  way  from  St.  Albans,  we  ar- 
rived at  the  spot  of  our  anxious  curiosity  about 
noon.  The  sight  of  the  old  farm-house,  though  every 
trace  of  it  was  effaced  from  my  recollections,  affected 
me  with  a  pleasure  which  I  had  not  experienced  for 
many  a  year.  For  though  /  had  forgotten  it,  we 
had  never  forgotten  being  there  together,  and  we 
had  been  talking  about  JNIackery  End  all  our  lives, 
till  memory  on  my  part  became  mocked  with  a 
phantom  of  itself,  and  I  thought  I  knew  the  aspect 
of  a  place  which,  when  present,  O  how  unlike  it 
was  to  that  which  I  had  conjured  up  so  many  times 
instead  of  it ! 

Still  the  air  breathed  balmily  about  it;  the  season 
was  in  the  "heart  of  June,"  and  I  could  say  with 
the  poet, 

But  thou,  that  didst  appear  so  fair 

To  fond  imagination, 
Dost  rival  in  the  Hght  of  day 

Her  deHcate  creation! 

Bridget's  was  more  a  waking  bliss  than  mine,  for 

151 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

she  easily  remembered  her  old  acquaintance  again 
— some  altered  features,  of  course,  a  little  grudged 
at.  At  first,  indeed,  she  was  ready  to  disbelieve  for 
joy;  but  the  scene  soon  reconfirmed  itself  in  her 
affections — and  she  traversed  every  outpost  of  the 
old  mansion,  to  the  wood-house,  the  orchard,  the 
place  where  the  pigeon-house  had  stood  (house  and 
birds  were  alike  flown) — with  a  breathless  impa- 
tience of  recognition,  which  was  more  pardonable 
perhaps  than  decorous  at  the  age  of  fifty  odd.  But 
Bridget  in  some  things  is  behind  her  years. 

The  only  thing  left  was  to  get  into  the  house — 
and  that  was  a  difficulty  which  to  me  singly  would 
have  been  insurmountable ;  for  I  am  terribly  shy  in 
making  myself  known  to  strangers  and  out-of-date 
kinsfolk.  Love,  stronger  than  scruple,  winged  my 
cousin  in  without  me ;  but  she  soon  returned  with 
a  creature  that  might  have  sat  to  a  sculptor  for 
the  image  of  Welcome.  It  was  the  youngest  of  the 
Gladmans ;  who,  by  marriage  with  a  Bruton,  had  be- 
come mistress  of  the  old  mansion.  A  comely  brood 
are  the  Brutons.  Six  of  them,  females,  were  noted 
as  the  handsomest  young  women  in  the  county.  But 
this  adopted  Bruton,  in  my  mind,  was  better  than 
they  all — more  comely.  She  was  born  too  late  to 
have  remembered  me.  She  just  recollected  in  early 
life  to  have  had  her  cousin  Bridget  once  pointed  out 
to  her,  climbing  a  stile.  But  the  name  of  kindred 
and  of  cousinship  was  enough.  Those  slender  ties, 
that  prove  slight  as  gossamer  in  the  rending  atmos- 
152 


MACKERY  END,  IN  HERTFORDSHIRE 

phere  of  a  metropolis,  bind  faster,  as  we  found  it,  in 
hearty,  homely,  loving  Hertfordshire.  In  five  min- 
utes we  were  as  thoroughly  acquainted  as  if  we  had 
been  born  and  bred  up  together ;  were  familiar,  even 
to  the  calling  each  other  by  our  Christian  names. 
So  Christians  should  call  one  another.  To  have  seen 
Bridget  and  her — it  was  like  the  meeting  of  the  two 
scriptural  cousins!  There  was  a  grace  and  dignity, 
an  amplitude  of  form  and  stature,  answering  to  her 
mind,  in  this  farmer's  wife,  which  would  have  shined 
in  a  palace — or  so  we  thought  it.  We  were  made 
welcome  by  husband  and  wife  equally — we,  and  our 
friend  that  was  with  us. — I  had  almost  forgotten 
him — but  B.  F.  will  not  so  soon  forget  that  meet- 
ing, if  peradventure  he  shall  read  this  on  the  far  dis- 
tant shores  where  the  kangaroo  haunts.  The  fatted 
calf  was  made  ready,  or  rather  was  already  so,  as  if 
in  anticipation  of  our  coming;  and,  after  an  appro- 
priate glass  of  native  wine,  never  let  me  forget  with 
what  honest  pride  this  hospitable  cousin  made  us 
proceed  to  Wheathampstead,  to  introduce  us  (as 
some  new-found  rarity)  to  her  mother  and  sister 
Gladmans,  who  did  indeed  know  something  more  of 
us,  at  a  time  when  she  almost  knew  nothing. — With 
what  corresponding  kindness  we  were  received  by 
them  also^ — how  Bridget's  memory,  exalted  by  the 
occasion,  warmed  into  a  thousand  half-obliterated 
recollections  of  things  and  persons,  to  my  utter  as- 
tonishment, and  her  own — and  to  the  astoundment 
of  B.  F.  who  sat  by,  almost  the  only  thing  that  was 

153 


THE   ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

not  a  cousin  there, — old  effaced  images  of  more 
than  half-forgotten  names  and  circumstances  still 
crowding  back  upon  her,  as  words  written  in  lemon 
come  out  upon  exposure  to  a  friendly  warmth, — 
when  I  forget  all  this,  then  may  my  country  cousins 
forget  me;  and  Bridget  no  more  remember,  that 
in  the  days  of  weakling  infancy  I  was  her  tender 
charge — as  I  have  been  her  care  in  foolish  manhood 
since — in  those  pretty  pastoral  walks,  long  ago, 
about  Mackery  End,  in  Hertfordshire. 


154 


MY  FIRST   PLAY 

AT  the  north  end  of  Cross-court  there  yet  stands 
l\.  a  portal,  of  some  architectural  pretensions, 
though  reduced  to  humble  use,  serving  at  present 
for  an  entrance  to  a  printing-office.  This  old  door- 
way, if  you  are  young.  Reader,  you  may  not  know 
was  the  identical  pit  entrance  to  old  Drury — Gar- 
rick's  Drury — all  of  it  that  is  left.  I  never  pass 
it  without  shaking  some  forty  years  from  off  my 
shoulders,  recurring  to  the  evening  when  I  passed 
through  it  to  see  my  first  play.  The  afternoon  had 
been  wet,  and  the  condition  of  our  going  (the  elder 
folks  and  myself)  was,  that  the  rain  should  cease. 
With  what  a  beating  heart  did  I  watch  from  the 
window  the  puddles,  from  the  stillness  of  which  I 
was  taught  to  prognosticate  the  desired  cessation! 
I  seem  to  remember  the  last  spurt,  and  the  glee  with 
which  I  ran  to  announce  it. 

We  went  with  orders,  which  my  godfather  F. 
had  sent  us.  He  kept  the  oil  shop  (now  Davies's) 
at  the  corner  of  Featherstone-buildings,  in  Holborn. 
F.  was  a  tall  grave  person,  lofty  in  speech,  and  had 
pretensions  above  his  rank.  He  associated  in  those 
days  with  John  Palmer,  the  comedian,  whose  gait 
and  bearing  he  seemed  to  copy;  if  John  (which  is 
quite  as  likely)  did  not  rather  borrow  somewhat  of 
his  manner  from  my  godfather.  He  was  also  known 
to  and  visited  by  Sheridan.  It  was  to  his  house  in 

155 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

Holborn  that  young  Brinsley  brought  his  first  wife 
on  her  elopement  with  him  from  a  boarding-school 
at  Bath — the  beautiful  Maria  Linley.  My  parents 
were  present  (over  a  quadrille  table)  when  he  ar- 
rived in  the  evening  with  his  harmonious  charge. 
From  either  of  these  connections  it  may  be  inferred 
that  my  godfather  could  command  an  order  for  the 
then  Drury-lane  theatre  at  pleasure — and,  indeed, 
a  pretty  liberal  issue  of  those  cheap  billets,  in  Brins- 
ley's  easy  autograph,  I  have  heard  him  say  was  the 
sole  remuneration  which  he  had  received  for  many 
years'  nightly  illumination  of  the  orchestra  and  va- 
rious avenues  of  that  theatre — and  he  was  content 
it  should  be  so.  The  honour  of  Sheridan's  familiarity 
— or  supposed  familiarity  —  was  better  to  my  god- 
father than  money. 

F.  was  the  most  gentlemanly  of  oilmen ;  grandilo- 
quent, yet  courteous.  His  delivery  of  the  common- 
est matters  of  fact  was  Ciceronian.  He  had  two 
Latin  words  almost  constantly  in  his  mouth  (how 
odd  sounds  Latin  from  an  oilman's  lips!),  which 
my  better  knowledge  since  has  enabled  me  to  cor- 
rect. In  strict  pronunciation  they  should  have  been 
sounded  vice  versa — but  in  those  young  years  they 
impressed  me  with  more  awe  than  they  would  now 
do,  read  aright  from  Seneca  or  Varro — in  his  own 
peculiar  pronunciation,  monosyUabically  elaborated, 
or  Anglicised,  into  something  Uke  verse  verse.  By  an 
imposing  manner,  and  the  help  of  these  distorted 
syllables,  he  climbed  (but  that  was  little)  to  the 
156 


MY   FIRST   PLAY 

highest  parochial  honours  which  St.  Andrew's  has 
to  bestow. 

He  is  dead — and  thus  much  I  thought  due  to  his 
memory,  both  for  my  first  orders  (Uttle  wondrous 
tahsmans! — shght  keys,  and  insignificant  to  out- 
ward sight,  but  opening  to  me  more  than  Arabian 
paradises ! )  and,  moreover,  that  by  his  testamentary 
beneficence  I  came  into  possession  of  the  only  landed 
property  which  I  could  ever  call  my  own — situate 
near  the  road-way  village  of  pleasant  Puckeridge, 
in  Hertfordshire.  When  I  journeyed  down  to  take 
possession,  and  planted  foot  on  my  ow^n  ground,  the 
stately  habits  of  the  donor  descended  upon  me,  and 
I  strode  (shall  I  confess  the  vanity?)  with  larger 
paces  over  my  allotment  of  three  quarters  of  an 
acre,  with  its  commodious  mansion  in  the  midst, 
with  the  feeling  of  an  English  freeholder  that  all 
betwixt  sky  and  centre  was  my  own.  The  estate  has 
passed  into  more  prudent  hands,  and  nothing  but 
an  agrarian  can  restore  it. 

In  those  days  were  pit  orders.  Beshrew  the  un- 
comfortable manager  who  abolished  them! — with 
one  of  these  we  went.  I  remember  the  waiting  at 
the  door — not  that  which  is  left — but  between  that 
and  an  inner  door  in  shelter — O  when  shall  I  be 
such  an  expectant  again!— with  the  cry  of  nonpa- 
reils, an  indispensable  play-house  accompaniment  in 
those  days.  As  near  as  I  can  recollect,  the  fashion- 
able pronunciation  of  the  theatrical  fruiteresses  then 
was,  "Chase  some  oranges,  chase  some  numparels, 

167 


THE   ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

chase  a  bill  of  the  play"; — chase  pro  chuse.  But 
when  we  got  in,  and  I  beheld  the  green  curtain  that 
veiled  a  heaven  to  my  imagination,  which  was  soon 
to  be  disclosed — the  breathless  anticipations  I  en- 
dured! I  had  seen  something  like  it  in  the  plate 
prefixed  to  Troilus  and  Cressida,  in  Rowe's  Shak- 
speare — the  tent  scene  with  Diomede — and  a  sight 
of  that  plate  can  always  bring  back  in  a  measure  the 
feeling  of  that  evening. — The  boxes  at  that  time, 
full  of  well-dressed  women  of  quality,  projected 
over  the  pit ;  and  the  pilasters  reaching  down  were 
adorned  with  a  glistening  substance  (I  know  not 
what)  under  glass  (as  it  seemed),  resembling — a 
homely  fancy — but  I  judged  it  to  be  sugar-candy 
— yet  to  my  raised  imagination,  divested  of  its 
homelier  qualities,  it  appeared  a  glorified  candy! — 
The  orchestra  lights  at  length  rose,  those  "fair  Au- 
roras ! "  Once  the  bell  sounded.  It  was  to  ring  out 
yet  once  again — and,  incapable  of  the  anticipation, 
I  reposed  my  shut  eyes  in  a  sort  of  resignation  upon 
the  maternal  lap.  It  rang  the  second  time.  The  cur- 
tain drew  up — I  was  not  past  six  years  old,  and  the 
play  was  Artaxerxes ! 

I  had  dabbled  a  little  in  the  Universal  History 
— the  ancient  part  of  it — and  here  was  the  court 
of  Persia.  —  It  was  being  admitted  to  a  sight  of  the 
past.  I  took  no  proper  interest  in  the  action  going 
on,  for  I  understood  not  its  import — but  I  heard 
the  word  Darius,  and  I  was  in  the  midst  of  Daniel. 
All  feeling  was  absorbed  in  vision.  Gorgeous  vests, 
158 


MY   FIRST   PLAY 

gardens,  palaces,  princesses,  passed  before  me.  1 
knew  not  players.  I  was  in  Persepolis  for  the  time, 
and  the  burning  idol  of  their  devotion  almost  con- 
verted me  into  a  worshipper.  I  was  awe-struck,  and 
believed  those  significations  to  be  something  more 
than  elemental  fires.  It  was  all  enchantment  and  a 
dream.  No  such  pleasure  has  since  visited  me  but 
in  dreams. — Harlequin's  invasion  followed;  where, 
I  remember,  the  transformation  of  the  magistrates 
into  reverend  beldams  seemed  to  me  a  piece  of  grave 
historic  justice,  and  the  tailor  carrying  his  own  head 
to  be  as  sober  a  verity  as  the  legend  of  St.  Denys. 

The  next  play  to  which  I  was  taken  was  the  Lady 
of  the  Manor,  of  which,  with  the  exception  of  some 
scenery,  very  faint  traces  are  left  in  my  memory.  It 
was  followed  by  a  pantomime,  called  Lun's  Ghost 
— a  satiric  touch,  I  apprehend,  upon  Rich,  not  long 
since  dead — but  to  my  apprehension  (too  sincere  for 
satire),  Lun  was  as  remote  a  piece  of  antiquity  as 
Lud — the  father  of  a  line  of  Harlequins — transmit- 
ting his  dagger  of  lath  (the  wooden  sceptre)  through 
countless  ages.  I  saw  the  primeval  Motley  come 
from  his  silent  tomb  in  a  ghastly  vest  of  white 
patchwork,  like  the  apparition  of  a  dead  rainbow. 
So  Harlequins  (thought  I)  look  when  they  are  dead. 

My  third  play  followed  in  quick  succession.  It  was 
the  Way  of  the  World.  I  think  I  must  have  sat  at 
it  as  grave  as  a  judge;  for  I  remember  the  hysteric 
affectations  of  good  Lady  Wishfort  affected  me  like 
some  solemn  tragic  passion.  Robinson  Crusoe  fol- 

159 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

lowed;  in  which  Crusoe,  man  Friday,  and  the  par- 
rot, were  as  good  and  authentic  as  in  the  story. — 
The  clownery  and  pantaloonery  of  these  pantomimes 
have  clean  passed  out  of  my  head.  I  believe,  I  no 
more  laughed  at  them,  than  at  the  same  age  I  should 
have  been  disposed  to  laugh  at  the  grotesque  gothic 
heads  (seeming  to  me  then  replete  with  devout 
meaning)  that  gape  and  grin,  in  stone  around  the 
inside  of  the  old  Round  Church  (my  church)  of 
the  Templars. 

I  saw  these  plays  in  the  season  1781-2,  when  I 
was  from  six  to  seven  years  old.  After  the  inter- 
vention of  six  or  seven  other  years  (for  at  school  all 
play -going  was  inhibited)  I  again  entered  the  doors 
of  a  theatre.  That  old  Artaxerxes  evening  had  never 
done  ringing  in  my  fancy.  I  expected  the  same  feel- 
ings to  come  again  with  the  same  occasion.  But  we 
differ  from  ourselves  less  at  sixty  and  sixteen,  than 
the  latter  does  from  six.  In  that  interval  what  had 
I  not  lost !  At  the  first  period  I  knew  nothing,  un- 
derstood nothing,  discriminated  nothing.  I  felt  all, 
loved  all,  wondered  all  — 

Was  nourished,  I  could  not  tell  how — 

I  had  left  the  temple  a  devotee,  and  was  returned  a 
rationalist.  The  same  things  were  there  materially; 
but  the  emblem,  the  reference,  was  gone! — The 
green  curtain  was  no  longer  a  veil,  drawn  between 
two  worlds,  the  unfolding  of  which  was  to  bring 
back  past  ages,  to  present  a  "royal  ghost," — but  a 
160 


MY   FIRST   PLAY 

certain  quantity  of  green  baize,  which  was  to  sepa- 
rate the  audience  for  a  given  time  from  certain  of 
their  fellow-men  who  were  to  come  forward  and 
pretend  those  parts.  The  lights — the  orchestra  hghts 
— came  up  a  clumsy  machinery.  The  first  ring, 
and  the  second  ring,  was  now  but  a  trick  of  the 
prompter's  bell — which  had  been,  like  the  note  of 
the  cuckoo,  a  phantom  of  a  voice,  no  hand  seen  or 
guessed  at  which  ministered  to  its  warning.  The  ac- 
tors were  men  and  women  painted.  I  thought  the 
fault  was  in  them ;  but  it  was  in  myself,  and  the  al- 
teration which  those  many  centuries — of  six  short 
twelvemonths — had  wrought  in  me. — Perhaps  it 
was  fortunate  for  me  that  the  play  of  the  evening 
was  but  an  indifferent  comedy,  as  it  gave  me  time 
to  crop  some  unreasonable  expectations,  which 
might  have  interfered  with  the  genuine  emotions 
with  which  I  was  soon  after  enabled  to  enter  upon 
the  first  appearance  to  me  of  Mrs.  Siddons  in  Isa- 
bella. Comparison  and  retrospection  soon  yielded  to 
the  present  attraction  of  the  scene ;  and  the  theatre 
became  to  me,  upon  a  new  stock,  the  most  delight- 
ful of  recreations. 


161 


MODERN   GALLANTRY 

IN  comparing  modern  with  ancient  manners,  we 
are  pleased  to  compliment  ourselves  upon  the 
point  of  gallantry ;  a  certain  obsequiousness,  or  def- 
erential respect,  which  we  are  supposed  to  pay  to 
females,  as  females. 

I  shall  believe  that  this  principle  actuates  our 
conduct,  when  I  can  forget,  that  in  the  nineteenth 
century  of  the  era  from  which  we  date  our  civility, 
we  are  but  just  beginning  to  leave  off  the  very  fre- 
quent practice  of  whipping  females  in  public,  in 
common  with  the  coarsest  male  offenders. 

I  shall  beheve  it  to  be  influential,  when  I  can  shut 
my  eyes  to  the  fact  that  in  England  women  are  still 
occasionally — hanged. 

I  shall  believe  in  it,  when  actresses  are  no  longer 
subject  to  be  hissed  off  a  stage  by  gentlemen. 

I  shall  believe  in  it,  when  Dorimant  hands  a  fish- 
wife across  the  kennel ;  or  assists  the  apple-woman 
to  pick  up  her  wandering  fruit,  which  some  unlucky 
dray  has  just  dissipated. 

I  shall  believe  in  it,  when  the  Dorimants  in  hum- 
bler life,  who  would  be  thought  in  their  way  notable 
adepts  in  this  refinement,  shall  act  upon  it  in  places 
where  they  are  not  known,  or  think  themselves  not 
observed — when  I  shall  see  the  traveller  for  some 
rich  tradesman  part  with  his  admired  box-coat,  to 
spread  it  over  the  defenceless  shoulders  of  the  poor 
162 


MODERN   GALLANTRY 

woman,  who  is  passing  to  her  parish  on  the  roof  of 
the  same  stage-coach  with  him,  drenched  in  the 
rain — when  I  shall  no  longer  see  a  woman  standing 
up  in  the  pit  of  a  London  theatre,  till  she  is  sick 
and  faint  with  the  exertion,  with  men  about  her, 
seated  at  their  ease,  and  jeering  at  her  distress ;  till 
one,  that  seems  to  have  more  manners  or  conscience 
than  the  rest,  significantly  declares  "she  should  be 
welcome  to  his  seat,  if  she  were  a  little  younger  and 
handsomer."  Place  this  dapper  warehouseman,  or 
that  rider,  in  a  circle  of  their  own  female  acquain- 
tance, and  you  shall  confess  you  have  not  seen  a 
politer-bred  man  in  Lothbury. 

Lastly,  I  shall  begin  to  believe  that  there  is  some 
such  principle  influencing  our  conduct,  when  more 
than  one-half  of  the  drudgery  and  coarse  servitude 
of  the  world  shall  cease  to  be  performed  by  women. 

Until  that  day  comes  I  shall  never  believe  this 
boasted  point  to  be  anything  more  than  a  conven- 
tional fiction ;  a  pageant  got  up  between  the  sexes, 
in  a  certain  rank,  and  at  a  certain  time  of  life,  in 
which  both  find  their  account  equally. 

I  shall  be  even  disposed  to  rank  it  among  the  sal- 
utary fictions  of  life,  when  in  polite  circles  I  shall 
see  the  same  attentions  paid  to  age  as  to  youth,  to 
homely  features  as  to  handsome,  to  coarse  com- 
plexions as  to  clear — to  the  woman,  as  she  is  a  wo- 
man, not  as  she  is  a  beauty,  a  fortune,  or  a  title. 

I  shall  believe  it  to  be  something  more  than  a 
name,  when  a  well-dressed  gentleman  in  a  well- 

163 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

dressed  company  can  advert  to  the  topic  oi  female 
old  age  without  exciting,  and  intending  to  excite, 
a  sneer: — when  the  phrases  "antiquated  virginity," 
and  such  a  one  has  "overstood  her  market,"  pro- 
nounced in  good  company,  shall  raise  immediate 
offence  in  man,  or  woman,  that  shall  hear  them 
spoken. 

Joseph  Paice,  of  Bread-street-hill,  merchant,  and 
one  of  the  Directors  of  the  South  Sea  company — 
the  same  to  whom  Edwards,  the  Shakspeare  com- 
mentator, has  addressed  a  fine  sonnet — was  the  only 
pattern  of  consistent  gallantry  I  have  met  with.  He 
took  me  under  his  shelter  at  an  early  age,  and  be- 
stowed some  pains  upon  me.  I  owe  to  his  precepts 
and  example  whatever  there  is  of  the  man  of  busi- 
ness (and  that  is  not  much)  in  my  composition.  It 
was  not  his  fault  that  I  did  not  profit  more.  Though 
bred  a  Presbyterian,  and  brought  up  a  merchant,  he 
was  the  finest  gentleman  of  his  time.  He  had  not 
one  system  of  attention  to  females  in  the  drawing- 
room,  and  another  in  the  shop,  or  at  the  stall.  I  do 
not  mean  that  he  made  no  distinction.  But  he  never 
lost  sight  of  sex,  or  overlooked  it  in  the  casualties  of 
a  disadvantageous  situation.  I  have  seen  him  stand 
bareheaded — smile  if  you  please — to  a  poor  ser- 
vant-girl, while  she  has  been  inquiring  of  him  the 
way  to  some  street — in  such  a  posture  of  unforced 
civility,  as  neither  to  embarrass  her  in  the  accep- 
tance, nor  himself  in  the  offer,  of  it.  He  was  no  dan- 
gler, in  the  common  acceptation  of  the  word,  after 
164 


MODERN   GALLANTRY 

women ;  but  he  reverenced  and  upheld,  in  every  form 
in  which  it  came  before  him,  womanhood.  I  have  seen 
him — nay,  smile  not — tenderly  escorting  a  market- 
woman,  whom  he  had  encountered  in  a  shower,  ex- 
alting his  umbrella  over  her  poor  basket  of  fruit,  that 
it  might  receive  no  damage,  with  as  much  careful- 
ness as  if  she  had  been  a  Countess.  To  the  reverend 
form  of  Female  Eld  he  would  yield  the  wall  (though 
it  were  to  an  ancient  beggar-woman)  with  more  cere- 
mony than  we  can  afford  to  show  our  grandams.  He 
was  the  Preux  ChevaUer  of  Age ;  the  Sir  Calidore, 
or  Sir  Tristan,  to  those  who  have  no  Calidores  or 
Tristans  to  defend  them.  The  roses,  that  had  long 
faded  thence,  still  bloomed  for  him  in  those  withered 
and  yellow  cheeks. 

He  was  never  married,  but  in  his  youth  he  paid 
his  addresses  to  the  beautiful  Susan  Winstanley — 
old  Winstanley 's  daughter  of  Clapton — who  dying 
in  the  early  days  of  their  courtship,  confirmed  in  him 
the  resolution  of  perpetual  bachelorship.  It  was  dur- 
ing their  short  courtship,  he  told  me,  that  he  had 
been  one  day  treating  his  mistress  with  a  profusion  of 
civil  speeches — the  common  gallantries — to  which 
kind  of  thing  she  had  hitherto  manifested  no  repug- 
nance— but  in  this  instance  with  no  effect.  He  could 
not  obtain  from  her  a  decent  acknowledgment  in  re- 
turn. She  rather  seemed  to  resent  his  compliments. 
He  could  not  set  it  down  to  caprice,  for  the  lady  had 
always  shown  herself  above  that  littleness.  When  he 
ventured  on  the  following  day,  finding  her  a  little 

165 


THE  ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

better  humoured,  to  expostulate  with  her  on  her 
coldness  of  yesterday,  she  confessed,  with  her  usual 
frankness,  that  she  had  no  sort  of  dislike  to  his  at- 
tentions; that  she  could  even  endure  some  high- 
flown  compliments;  that  a  young  woman  placed  in 
her  situation  had  a  right  to  expect  all  sorts  of  civil 
things  said  to  her;  that  she  hoped  she  could  digest  a 
dose  of  adulation,  short  of  insincerity,  with  as  little 
injury  to  her  humility  as  most  young  women;  but 
that — a  little  before  he  had  commenced  his  com- 
pliments— she  had  overheard  him  by  accident,  in 
rather  rough  language,  rating  a  young  woman,  who 
had  not  brought  home  his  cravats  quite  to  the  ap- 
pointed time,  and  she  thought  to  herself,  "As  I  am 
Miss  Susan  Winstanley,  and  a  young  lady — a  re- 
puted beauty,  and  known  to  be  a  fortune — I  can 
have  my  choice  of  the  finest  speeches  from  the 
mouth  of  this  very  fine  gentleman  who  is  courting 
me — but  if  I  had  been  poor  Mary  Such-a-one  {nam- 
ing the  milliner), — and  had  failed  of  bringing  home 
the  cravats  to  the  appointed  hour — though  perhaps 
I  had  sat  up  half  the  night  to  forward  them — what 
sort  of  compliments  should  I  have  received  then  ? — 
And  my  woman's  pride  came  to  my  assistance ;  and 
I  thought,  that  if  it  were  only  to  do  me  honour,  a 
female,  like  myself,  might  have  received  handsomer 
usage ;  and  I  was  determined  not  to  accept  any  fine 
speeches  to  the  compromise  of  that  sex,  the  belong- 
ing to  which  was  after  all  my  strongest  claim  and 
title  to  them." 
166 


MODERN   GALLANTRY 

I  think  the  lady  discovered  both  generosity,  and  a 
just  way  of  thinking,  in  this  rebuke  which  she  gave 
her  lover;  and  I  have  sometimes  imagined,  that  the 
uncommon  strain  of  courtesy,  which  through  hfe 
regulated  the  actions  and  behaviour  of  my  friend 
towards  all  of  womankind  indiscriminately,  owed  its 
happy  origin  to  this  seasonable  lesson  from  the  lips 
of  his  lamented  mistress. 

I  wish  the  whole  female  world  would  entertain 
the  same  notion  of  these  things  that  Miss  Winstan- 
ley  showed.  Then  we  should  see  something  of  the 
spirit  of  consistent  gallantry ;  and  no  longer  witness 
the  anomaly  of  the  same  man — a  pattern  of  true 
politeness  to  a  wife — of  cold  contempt,  or  rudeness, 
to  a  sister — the  idolater  of  his  female  mistress — the 
disparager  and  despiser  of  his  no  less  female  aunt,  or 
unfortunate — still  female — maiden  cousin.  Just  so 
much  respect  as  a  woman  derogates  from  her  own 
sex,  in  whatever  condition  placed — her  hand-maid, 
or  dependent — she  deserves  to  have  diminished  from 
herself  on  that  score ;  and  probably  will  feel  the  dim- 
inution, when  youth,  and  beauty,  and  advantages, 
not  inseparable  from  sex,  shall  lose  of  their  attrac- 
tion. What  a  woman  should  demand  of  a  man  in 
courtship,  or  after  it,  is  first — respect  for  her  as  she 
is  a  woman ; — and  next  to  that— to  be  respected  by 
him  above  all  other  women.  But  let  her  stand  upon 
her  female  character  as  upon  a  foundation;  and  let 
the  attentions,  incident  to  individual  preference,  be 
so  many  pretty  additaments  and  ornaments — as 

167 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

many,  and  as  fanciful,  as  you  please — to  that  main 
structure.  Let  her  first  lesson  be — with  sweet  Susan 
Winstanley — to  reverence  her  sex. 


168 


THE   OLD   BENCHERS   OF  THE 
INNER  TEMPLE 

I  WAS  born,  and  passed  the  first  seven  years  of 
my  life,  in  the  Temple.  Its  church,  its  halls,  its 
gardens,  its  fountains,  its  river,  I  had  almost  said — 
for  in  those  young  years,  what  was  this  king  of  rivers 
to  me  but  a  stream  that  watered  our  pleasant  places  ? 
— these  are  of  my  oldest  recollections.  I  repeat,  to 
this  day,  no  verses  to  myself  more  frequently,  or 
with  kindUer  emotion,  than  those  of  Spenser,  where 
he  speaks  of  this  spot: — 

There  when  they  came,  whereas  those  bricky  towers. 
The  which  on  Themmes  brode  aged  back  doth  ride. 
Where  now  the  studious  lawyers  have  their  bowers. 
There  whylome  wont  the  Templer  knights  to  bide. 
Till  they  decayed  through  pride. 

Indeed,  it  is  the  most  elegant  spot  in  the  metrop- 
ohs.  What  a  transition  for  a  countryman  visiting 
London  for  the  first  time — the  passing  from  the 
crowded  Strand  or  Fleet  Street,  by  unexpected  av- 
enues, into  its  magnificent  ample  squares,  its  classic 
green  recesses!  What  a  cheerful,  liberal  look  hath 
that  portion  of  it,  which,  from  three  sides,  overlooks 
the  greater  garden ;  that  goodly  pile 

Of  building  strong,  albeit  of  Paper  hight, 

confronting  with  massy  contrast,  the  lighter,  older, 
more  fantastically-shrouded  one,  named  of  Har- 

169 


THE  ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

court,  with  the  cheerful  Crown-Office-row  (place 
of  my  kindly  engendure),  right  opposite  the  stately 
stream,  which  washes  the  garden-foot  with  her  yet 
scarcely  trade-polluted  waters,  and  seems  but  just 
weaned  from  her  Twickenham  Naiades!  a  man 
would  give  something  to  have  been  born  in  such 
places.  What  a  collegiate  aspect  has  that  fine  Ehz- 
abethan  hall,  where  the  fountain  plays,  which  I  have 
made  to  rise  and  fall,  how  many  times!  to  the  as- 
toundment  of  the  young  urchins,  my  contempora- 
ries, who,  not  being  able  to  guess  at  its  recondite 
machinery,  were  almost  tempted  to  hail  the  won- 
drous work  as  magic !  What  an  antique  air  had  the 
now  almost  effaced  sun-dials,  with  their  moral  in- 
scriptions, seeming  coevals  with  that  Time  which 
they  measured,  and  to  take  their  revelations  of  its 
flight  immediately  from  heaven,  holding  correspon- 
dence with  the  fountain  of  light!  How  would  the 
dark  line  steal  imperceptibly  on,  watched  by  the 
eye  of  childhood,  eager  to  detect  its  movement, 
never  catched,  nice  as  an  evanescent  cloud,  or  the 
first  arrests  of  sleep ! 

Ah!  yet  doth  beauty  hke  a  dial  hand 

Steal  from  his  figure,  and  no  pace  perceived! 

What  a  dead  thing  is  a  clock,  with  its  ponderous 
embowelments  of  lead  and  brass,  its  pert  or  solemn 
dulness  of  communication,  compared  with  the  sim- 
ple altar-like  structure  and  silent  heart-language  of 
th^  old  dial !  It  stood  as  the  garden  god  of  Christian 
170 


OLD   BENCHERS   OF   INNER   TEMPLE 

gardens.  Why  is  it  almost  everywhere  vanished  ?  If 
its  business-use  be  superseded  by  more  elaborate 
inventions,  its  moral  uses,  its  beauty,  might  have 
pleaded  for  its  continuance.  It  spoke  of  moderate 
labours,  of  pleasures  not  protracted  after  sunset,  of 
temperance,  and  good  hours.  It  was  the  primitive 
clock,  the  horologe  of  the  first  world.  Adam  could 
scarce  have  missed  it  in  Paradise.  It  was  the  mea- 
sure appropriate  for  sweet  plants  and  flowers  to 
spring  by,  for  the  birds  to  apportion  their  silver 
warblings  by,  for  flocks  to  pasture  and  be  led  to 
fold  by.  The  shepherd  "carved  it  out  quaintly  in 
the  sun";  and,  turning  philosopher  by  the  very  oc- 
cupation, provided  it  with  mottoes  more  touching 
than  tombstones.  It  was  a  pretty  device  of  the  gar- 
dener, recorded  by  Marvell,  who,  in  the  days  of  arti- 
ficial gardening,  made  a  dial  out  of  herbs  and  flowers. 
I  must  quote  his  verses  a  little  higher  up,  for  they 
are  full,  as  all  his  serious  poetry  was,  of  a  witty  del- 
icacy. They  will  not  come  in  awkwardly,  I  hope,  in 
a  talk  of  fountains  and  sun-dials.  He  is  speaking  of 
sweet  garden  scenes: — 

What  wondrous  life  is  this  I  lead! 
Ripe  apples  drop  about  my  head. 
The  luscious  clusters  of  the  vine 
Upon  my  mouth  do  crush  their  wine. 
The  nectarine,  and  curious  peach. 
Into  my  hands  themselves  do  reach. 
Stumbling  on  melons,  as  I  pass, 
Insnared  with  flowers,  I  fall  on  grass. 
Meanwhile  the  mind  from  pleasure  less 

171 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

Withdraws  into  its  happiness. 

The  mind,  that  ocean,  where  each  kind 

Does  straight  its  own  resemblance  find; 

Yet  it  creates,  transcending  these. 

Far  other  worlds  and  other  seas; 

Annihilating  all  that's  made 

To  a  green  thought  in  a  green  shade. 

Here  at  the  fountain's  sliding  foot 

Or  at  some  fruit-tree's  mossy  root. 

Casting  the  body's  vest  aside, 

My  soul  into  the  boughs  does  glide; 

There,  like  a  bird,  it  sits  and  sings, 

Then  whets  and  claps  its  silver  wings, 

And,  till  prepared  for  longer  flight. 

Waves  in  its  plumes  the  various  light 

How  well  the  skilful  gardener  drew 

Of  flowers  and  herbs,  this  dial  new ! 

Where,  from  above,  the  milder  sun 

Does  through  a  fragrant  zodiac  run: 

And,  as  it  works,  the  industrious  bee 

Computes  its  time  as  well  as  we. 

How  could  such  sweet  and  wholesome  hours 

Be  reckoned,  but  with  herbs  and  flowers  ?  ^ 

The  artificial  fountains  of  the  metropoUs  are,  in 
like  manner,  fast  vanishing.  Most  of  them  are  dried 
up  or  bricked  over.  Yet,  where  one  is  left,  as  in  that 
little  green  nook  behind  the  South-Sea  House,  what 
a  freshness  it  gives  to  the  dreary  pile!  Four  little 
winged  marble  boys  used  to  play  their  virgin  fan- 
cies, spouting  out  ever  fresh  streams  from  their  in- 
nocent-wanton lips  in  the  square  of  Lincoln's  Inn, 
when  I  was  no  bigger  than  they  were  figured.  They 

1  From  a  copy  of  verses  entitled  "The  Garden." 
172 


OLD   BENCHERS   OF   INNER  TEMPLE 

are  gone,  and  the  spring  choked  up.  The  fashion, 
they  tell  me,  is  gone  by,  and  these  things  are  es- 
teemed childish.  Why  not,  then,  gratify  children,  by 
letting  them  stand  ?  Lawyers,  I  suppose,  were  chil- 
dren once.  They  are  awakening  images  to  them  at 
least.  Why  must  everything  smack  of  man,  and 
mannish?  Is  the  world  all  grown  up?  Is  childhood 
dead  ?  Or  is  there  not  in  the  bosoms  of  the  wisest 
and  the  best  some  of  the  child's  heart  left,  to  re- 
spond to  its  earliest  enchantments  ?  The  figures  were 
grotesque.  Are  the  stifF-wigged  hving  figures,  that 
still  flitter  and  chatter  about  that  area,  less  Gothic 
in  appearance  ?  or  is  the  splutter  of  their  hot  rhet- 
oric one-half  so  refreshing  and  innocent  as  the  little 
cool  playful  streams  those  exploded  cherubs  ut- 
tered ? 

They  have  lately  gothicised  the  entrance  to  the 
Inner  Temple-hall,  and  the  library  front ;  to  assim- 
ilate them,  I  suppose,  to  the  body  of  the  hall,  which 
they  do  not  at  all  resemble.  What  is  become  of  the 
winged  horse  that  stood  over  the  former  ?  a  stately 
arms!  and  who  has  removed  those  frescoes  of  the 
Virtues,  which  Italianised  the  end  of  the  Paper- 
buildings? — my  first  hint  of  allegory!  They  must 
account  to  me  for  these  things,  which  I  miss  so 
greatly. 

The  terrace  is,  indeed,  left,  which  we  used  to  call 
the  parade;  but  the  traces  are  passed  away  of  the 
footsteps  which  made  its  pavement  awful !  It  is  be- 
come common  and  profane.  The  old  benchers  had  it 

173 


THE   ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

almost  sacred  to  themselves,  in  the  forepart  of  the 
day  at  least.  They  might  not  be  sided  or  jostled. 
Their  air  and  dress  asserted  the  parade.  You  left 
wide  spaces  betwixt  you  when  you  passed  them. 
We  walk  on  even  terms  with  their  successors.  The 

roguish  eye  of  J 11,  ever  ready  to  be  deUvered  of 

a  jest,  almost  invites  a  stranger  to  vie  a  repartee 
with  it.  But  what  insolent  familiar  durst  have  mated 
Thomas  Coventry? — whose  person  was  a  quadrate, 
his  step  massy  and  elephantine,  his  face  square  as 
the  lion's,  his  gait  peremptory  and  path-keeping, 
indivertible  from  his  way  as  a  moving  column,  the 
scarecrow  of  his  inferiors,  the  browbeater  of  equals 
and  superiors,  who  made  a  solitude  of  children 
wherever  he  came,  for  they  fled  his  insufferable 
presence,  as  they  would  have  shunned  an  Elisha 
bear.  His  growl  was  as  thunder  in  their  ears,  whether 
he  spake  to  them  in  mirth  or  in  rebuke ;  his  invita- 
tory  notes  being,  indeed,  of  all,  the  most  repulsive 
and  horrid.  Clouds  of  snuff*,  aggravating  the  natural 
terrors  of  his  speech,  broke  from  each  majestic  nos- 
tril, darkening  the  air.  He  took  it,  not  by  pinches, 
but  a  palmful  at  once, — diving  for  it  under  the 
mighty  flaps  of  his  old-fashioned  waistcoat  pocket ; 
his  waistcoat  red  and  angry,  his  coat  dark  rappee, 
tinctured  by  dye  original,  and  by  adjuncts,  with 
buttons  of  obsolete  gold.  And  so  he  paced  the  ter- 
race. 

By  his  side  a  milder  form  was  sometimes  to  be 
seen;  the  pensive  gentility  of  Samuel  Salt.  They 
174 


OLD   BENCHERS   OF    INNER   TEMPLE 

were  coevals,  and  had  nothing  but  that  and  their 
benchership  in  common.  In  politics  Salt  was  a  whig, 
and  Coventry  a  staunch  tory.  Many  a  sarcastic 
growl  did  the  latter  cast  out — for  Coventry  had  a 
rough  spinous  humour — at  the  political  confed- 
erates of  his  associate,  which  rebounded  from  the 
gentle  bosom  of  the  latter  like  cannon-balls  from 
wool.  You  could  not  ruffle  Samuel  Salt. 

S.  had  the  reputation  of  being  a  very  clever  man, 
and  of  excellent  discernment  in  the  chamber  prac- 
tice of  the  law.  I  suspect  his  knowledge  did  not 
amount  to  much.  When  a  case  of  difficult  disposi- 
tion of  money,  testamentary  or  otherwise,  came  be- 
fore him,  he  ordinarily  handed  it  over,  with  a  few 
instructions,  to  his  man  Lovel,  who  was  a  quick 
little  fellow,  and  would  despatch  it  out  of  hand  by 
the  light  of  natural  understanding,  of  which  he  had 
an  uncommon  share.  It  was  incredible  what  repute 
for  talents  S.  enjoyed  by  the  mere  trick  of  gravity. 
He  was  a  shy  man;  a  child  might  pose  him  in  a 
minute — indolent  and  procrastinating  to  the  last 
degree.  Yet  men  would  give  him  credit  for  vast 
application,  in  spite  of  himself.  He  was  not  to 
be  trusted  with  himself  with  impunity.  He  never 
dressed  for  a  dinner  party  but  he  forgot  his  sword 
— they  wore  swords  then — or  some  other  necessary 
part  of  his  equipage.  Lovel  had  his  eye  upon  him 
on  all  these  occasions,  and  ordinarily  gave  him  his 
cue.  If  there  was  anything  which  he  could  speak 
unseasonably,  he  was  sure  to  do  it. — He  was  to  dine 

175 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

at  a  relative's  of  the  unfortunate  Miss  Blandy  on  the 
day  of  her  execution; — and  L.,  who  had  a  wary 
foresight  of  his  probable  hallucinations,  before  he 
set  out,  schooled  him,  with  great  anxiety,  not  in  any 
possible  manner  to  allude  to  her  story  that  day.  S. 
promised  faithfully  to  observe  the  injunction.  He 
had  not  been  seated  in  the  parlour,  where  the  com- 
pany was  expecting  the  dinner  summons,  four  min- 
utes, when,  a  pause  in  the  conversation  ensuing,  he 
got  up,  looked  out  of  window,  and  pulling  down  his 
ruffles — an  ordinary  motion  with  him — observed, 
"it  was  a  gloomy  day,"  and  added,  "Miss  Blandy 
must  be  hanged  by  this  time,  I  suppose."  Instances 
of  this  sort  were  perpetual.  Yet  S.  was  thought  by 
some  of  the  greatest  men  of  his  time  a  fit  person  to 
be  consulted,  not  alone  in  matters  pertaining  to  the 
law,  but  in  the  ordinary  niceties  and  embarrass- 
ments of  conduct — from  force  of  manner  entirely. 
He  never  laughed.  He  had  the  same  good  fortune 
among  the  female  world, — was  a  known  toast  with 
the  ladies,  and  one  or  two  are  said  to  have  died  for 
love  of  him — I  suppose,  because  he  never  trifled  or 
talked  gallantly  with  them,  or  paid  them,  indeed, 
hardly  common  attentions.  He  had  a  fine  face  and 
person,  but  wanted,  methought,  the  spirit  that 
should  have  shown  them  off  with  advantage  to  the 
women.  His  eye  lacked  lustre. — Not  so,  thought 

Susan  P ;  who,  at  the  advanced  age  of  sixty, 

was  seen,  in  the  cold  evening  time,  unaccompanied, 

wetting  the  pavement  of  B d  Row,  with  tears 

176 


OLD   BENCHEKS   OF    INNER  TEMPLE 

that  fell  in  drops  which  might  be  heard,  because  her 
friend  had  died  that  day — he,  whom  she  had  pur- 
sued with  a  hopeless  passion  for  the  last  forty  years 
— a  passion  which  years  could  not  extinguish  or 
abate;  nor  the  long-resolved,  yet  gently-enforced, 
puttings  off  of  unrelenting  bachelorhood  dissuade 

from  its  cherished  purpose.  Mild  Susan  P ,  thou 

hast  now  thy  friend  in  heaven ! 

Thomas  Coventry  was  a  cadet  of  the  noble  fam- 
ily of  that  name.  He  passed  his  youth  in  contracted 
circumstances,  which  gave  him  early  those  parsi- 
monious habits  which  in  after  life  never  forsook 
him ;  so  that  with  one  windfall  or  another,  about  the 
time  I  knew  him,  he  was  master  of  four  or  five 
hundred  thousand  pounds ;  nor  did  he  look  or  walk 
worth  a  moidore  less.  He  lived  in  a  gloomy  house 
opposite  the  pump  in  Serjeant's-inn,  Fleet-street. 
J.,  the  counsel,  is  doing  self-imposed  penance  in  it, 
for  what  reason  I  divine  not,  at  this  day.  C.  had  an 
agreeable  seat  at  North  Cray,  where  he  seldom  spent 
above  a  day  or  two  at  a  time  in  the  summer ;  but 
preferred,  during  the  hot  months,  standing  at  his 
window  in  this  damp,  close,  well-like  mansion,  to 
watch,  as  he  said,  "the  maids  drawing  water  all  day 
long."  I  suspect  he  had  his  within-door  reasons  for 
the  preference.  Hie  currus  et  armafuere.  He  might 
think  his  treasures  more  safe.  His  house  had  the 
aspect  of  a  strong  box.  C.  was  a  close  hunks — a 
hoarder  rather  than  a  miser — or,  if  a  miser,  none  of 
the  mad  Elwes  breed,  who  have  brought  discredit 

177 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

upon  a  character  which  cannot  exist  without  certain 
admirable  points  of  steadiness  and  unity  of  purpose. 
One  may  hate  a  true  miser,  but  cannot,  I  suspect, 
so  easily  despise  him.  By  taking  care  of  the  pence 
he  is  often  enabled  to  part  with  the  pounds,  upon  a 
scale  that  leaves  us  careless  generous  fellows  halting 
at  an  immeasurable  distance  behind.  C.  gave  away 
30,000/.  at  once  in  his  lifetime  to  a  blind  charity. 
His  house-keeping  was  severely  looked  after,  but  he 
kept  the  table  of  a  gentleman.  He  would  know  who 
came  in  and  who  went  out  of  his  house,  but  his 
kitchen  chimney  was  never  suffered  to  freeze. 

Salt  was  his  opposite  in  this,  as  in  all — never 
knew  what  he  was  worth  in  the  world;  and  having 
but  a  competency  for  his  rank,  which  his  indolent 
habits  were  little  calculated  to  improve,  might  have 
suffered  severely  if  he  had  not  had  honest  people 
about  him.  Lovel  took  care  of  everything.  He  was 
at  once  his  clerk,  his  good  servant,  his  dresser,  his 
friend,  his  "flapper,"  his  guide,  stop-watch,  auditor, 
treasurer.  He  did  nothing  without  consulting  Lovel, 
or  failed  in  anything  without  expecting  and  fearing 
his  admonishing.  He  put  himself  almost  too  much 
in  his  hands,  had  they  not  been  the  purest  in  the 
world.  He  resigned  his  title  almost  to  respect  as  a 
master,  if  L.  could  ever  have  forgotten  for  a  mo- 
ment that  he  was  a  servant. 

I  knew  this  Lovel.  He  was  a  man  of  an  incorrig- 
ible and  losing  honesty.  A  good  fellow  withal,  and 
"would  strike."  In  the  cause  of  the  oppressed  he 
178 


OLD   BENCHERS   OF   INNER  TEMPLE 

never  considered  inequalities,  or  calculated  the  num- 
ber of  his  opponents.  He  once  wrested  a  sword  out 
of  the  hand  of  a  man  of  quality  that  had  drawn 
upon  him,  and  pommelled  him  severely  with  the  hilt 
of  it.  The  swordsman  had  offered  insult  to  a  female 
— an  occasion  upon  which  no  odds  against  him 
could  have  prevented  the  interference  of  Lovel.  He 
would  stand  next  day  bareheaded  to  the  same  per- 
son modestly  to  excuse  his  interference — for  L. 
never  forgot  rank  where  something  better  was  not 
concerned.  L.  was  the  liveliest  little  fellow  breath- 
ing, had  a  face  as  gay  as  Garrick's,  whom  he  was 
said  greatly  to  resemble  (I  have  a  portrait  of  him 
which  confirms  it),  possessed  a  fine  turn  for  humor- 
ous poetry — next  to  Swift  and  Prior — moulded 
heads  in  clay  or  plaster  of  Paris  to  admiration,  by 
the  dint  of  natural  genius  merely ;  turned  cribbage 
boards,  and  such  small  cabinet  toys,  to  perfection; 
took  a  hand  at  quadrille  or  bowls  with  equal  facil- 
ity; made  punch  better  than  any  man  of  his  degree 
in  England;  had  the  merriest  quips  and  conceits; 
and  was  altogether  as  brimful  of  rogueries  and  in- 
ventions as  you  could  desire.  He  was  a  brother  of 
the  angle,  moreover,  and  just  such  a  free,  hearty, 
honest  companion  as  Mr.  Izaak  Walton  would  have 
chosen  to  go  a-fishing  with.  I  saw  him  in  his  old 
age  and  the  decay  of  his  faculties,  palsy-smitten,  in 
the  last  sad  stage  of  human  weakness — "a  remnant 
most  forlorn  of  what  he  was," — yet  even  then  his 
eye  would  light  up  upon  the  mention  of  his  favour- 

179 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

ite  Garrick.  He  was  greatest,  he  would  say,  in  Bayes 
— "was  upon  the  stage  nearly  throughout  the  whole 
performance,  and  as  busy  as  a  bee."  At  intervals, 
too,  he  would  speak  of  his  former  life,  and  how  he 
came  up  a  little  boy  from  Lincoln  to  go  to  service, 
and  how  his  mother  cried  at  parting  with  him,  and 
how  he  returned,  after  some  few  years'  absence,  in 
his  smart  new  livery  to  see  her,  and  she  blest  her- 
self at  the  change,  and  could  hardly  be  brought  to 
believe  that  it  was  "her  own  bairn."  And  then,  the 
excitement  subsiding,  he  would  weep,  till  I  have 
wished  that  sad  second-childhood  might  have  a 
mother  still  to  lay  its  head  upon  her  lap.  But  the 
common  mother  of  us  all  in  no  long  time  after  re- 
ceived him  gently  into  hers. 

With  Coventry  and  with  Salt,  in  their  walks 
upon  the  terrace,  most  commonly  Peter  Pierson 
would  join  to  make  up  a  third.  They  did  not  walk 
linked  arm-in-arm  in  those  days — "as  now  our 
stout  triumvirs  sweep  the  streets," — but  generally 
with  both  hands  folded  behind  them  for  state,  or 
with  one  at  least  behind,  the  other  carrying  a  cane. 
P.  was  a  benevolent,  but  not  a  prepossessing  man. 
He  had  that  in  his  face  which  you  could  not  term 
unhappiness;  it  rather  implied  an  incapacity  of  be- 
ing happy.  His  cheeks  were  colourless,  even  to 
whiteness.  His  look  was  uninviting,  resembhng 
(but  without  his  sourness)  that  of  our  great  phi- 
lanthropist. I  know  that  he  did  good  acts,  but  I 
could  never  make  out  what  he  tvas.  Contemporary 
180 


OLD   BENCHERS   OF    INNER   TEJMPLE 

with  these,  but  subordinate,  was  Daines  Barrington 
— another  oddity — he  walked  burly  and  square — 
in  imitation,  I  think,  of  Coventry — howbeit  he  at- 
tained not  to  the  dignity  of  his  prototype.  Never- 
theless, he  did  pretty  well,  upon  the  strength  of 
being  a  tolerable  antiquarian,  and  having  a  brother 
a  bishop.  When  the  account  of  his  year's  treasurer- 
ship  came  to  be  audited,  the  following  singular 
charge  was  unanimously  disallowed  by  the  bench: 
"Item,  disbursed  Mr.  Allen,  the  gardener,  twenty 
shilUngs,  for  stuff  to  poison  the  sparrows,  by  my 
orders."  Next  to  him  was  old  Barton — a  jolly  nega- 
tion, who  took  upon  him  the  ordering  of  the  bills  of 
fare  for  the  parliament  chamber,  where  the  benchers 
dine — answering  to  the  combination  rooms  at  Col- 
lege— much  to  the  easement  of  his  less  epicurean 
brethren.  I  know  nothing  more  of  him. — Then 
Read,  and  Twopenny — Read,  good-humoured  and 
personable — Twopenny,  good-humoured,  but  thin, 
and  felicitous  in  jests  upon  his  own  figure.  If  T. 
was  thin,  W  harry  was  attenuated  and  fleeting. 
Many  must  remember  him  (for  he  was  rather  of 
later  date)  and  his  singular  gait,  which  was  per- 
formed by  three  steps  and  a  jump  regularly  suc- 
ceeding. The  steps  were  little  efforts,  like  that  of  a 
child  beginning  to  walk;  the  jump  comparatively 
vigorous,  as  a  foot  to  an  inch.  Where  he  learned 
this  figure,  or  what  occasioned  it,  I  could  never  dis- 
cover. It  was  neither  graceful  in  itself,  nor  seemed 
to  answer  the  purpose  any  better  than  common 

181 


THE   ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

walking.  The  extreme  tenuity  of  his  frame,  I  sus- 
pect, set  him  upon  it.  It  was  a  trial  of  poising. 
Twopenny  would  often  rally  him  upon  his  lean- 
ness, and  hail  him  as  Brother  Lusty;  but  W.  had 
no  relish  of  a  joke.  His  features  were  spiteful.  I 
have  heard  that  he  would  pinch  his  cat's  ears  ex- 
tremely when  anything  had  offended  him.  Jackson 
— the  omniscient  Jackson,  he  was  called — was  of 
this  period.  He  had  the  reputation  of  possessing 
more  multifarious  knowledge  than  any  man  of  his 
time.  He  was  the  Friar  Bacon  of  the  less  literate 
portion  of  the  Temple.  I  remember  a  pleasant  pas- 
sage of  the  cook  applying  to  him,  with  much  for- 
mality of  apology,  for  instructions  how  to  write 
down  edge  bone  of  beef  in  his  bill  of  commons.  He 
was  supposed  to  know,  if  any  man  in  the  world  did. 
He  decided  the  orthography  to  be — as  I  have 
given  it — fortifying  his  authority  with  such  ana- 
tomical reasons  as  dismissed  the  manciple  (for  the 
time)  learned  and  happy.  Some  do  spell  it  yet,  per- 
versely, aitch  bone,  from  a  fanciful  resemblance  be- 
tween its  shape  and  that  of  the  aspirate  so  denomi- 
nated. I  had  almost  forgotten  Mingay  with  the  iron 
hand  —  but  he  was  somewhat  later.  He  had  lost  his 
right  hand  by  some  accident,  and  supplied  it  with  a 
grappling-hook,  which  he  wielded  with  a  tolerable 
adroitness.  I  detected  the  substitute  before  I  was 
old  enough  to  reason  whether  it  were  artificial  or 
not.  I  remember  the  astonishment  it  raised  in  me. 
He  was  a  blustering,  loud-talking  person;  and  I  rec- 
182 


OLD   BENCHERS   OF   INNER   TEMPLE 

onciled  the  phenomenon  to  my  ideas  as  an  emblem 
of  power — somewhat  hke  the  horns  in  the  forehead 
of  Michael  Angelo's  Moses.  Baron  Maseres,  who 
walks  (or  did  till  very  lately)  in  the  costume  of  the 
reign  of  George  the  Second,  closes  my  imperfect 
recollections  of  the  old  benchers  of  the  Inner 
Temple. 

Fantastic  forms,  whither  are  ye  fled?  Or,  if  the 
like  of  you  exist,  why  exist  they  no  more  for  me? 
Ye  inexplicable,  half-understood  appearances,  why 
comes  in  reason  to  tear  away  the  preternatural 
mist,  bright  or  gloomy,  that  enshrouded  you?  Why 
make  ye  so  sorry  a  figure  in  my  relation,  who  made 
up  to  me — to  my  childish  eyes — the  mythology  of 
the  Temple?  In  those  days  I  saw  Gods,  as  "old 
men  covered  with  a  mantle,"  walking  upon  the 
earth.  Let  the  dreams  of  classic  idolatry  perish, — 
extinct  be  the  fairies  and  fairy  trumpery  of  legen- 
dary fabling,  in  the  heart  of  childhood  there  will, 
for  ever,  spring  up  a  well  of  innocent  or  wholesome 
superstition — the  seeds  of  exaggeration  will  be 
busy  there,  and  vital — from  every-day  forms  educ- 
ing the  unknown  and  the  uncommon.  In  that  little 
Goshen  there  will  be  light  when  the  grown  world 
flounders  about  in  the  darkness  of  sense  and  mate- 
riality. While  childhood,  and  while  dreams,  reduc- 
ing childhood,  shall  be  left,  imagination  shall  not 
have  spread  her  holy  wings  totally  to  fly  the  earth. 

P.S. — I  have  done  injustice  to  the  soft  shade  of 
Samuel  Salt.  See  what  it  is  to  trust  to  imperfect 

183 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

memory,  and  the  erring  notices  of  childhood  I  Yet  I 
protest  I  always  thought  that  he  had  been  a  bach- 
elor! This  gentleman,  R.  N.  informs  me,  married 
young,  and  losing  his  lady  in  childbed,  within  the 
first  year  of  their  union,  fell  into  a  deep  melan- 
choly, from  the  effects  of  which,  probably,  he  never 
thoroughly  recovered.  In  what  a  new  light  does  this 
place  his  rejection  (O  call  it  by  a  gentler  name!)  of 

mild  Susan  P ,  unravelling  into  beauty  certain 

peculiarities  of  this  very  shy  and  retiring  character! 
Henceforth  let  no  one  receive  the  narratives  of  Elia 
for  true  records!  They  are,  in  truth,  but  shadows  of 
fact — verisimilitudes,  not  verities — or  sitting  but 
upon  the  remote  edges  and  outskirts  of  history.  He 
is  no  such  honest  chronicler  as  R.  N,,  and  would 
have  done  better  perhaps  to  have  consulted  that 
gentleman  before  he  sent  these  incondite  reminis- 
cences to  press.  But  the  worthy  sub-treasurer — who 
respects  his  old  and  his  new  masters — would  but 
have  been  puzzled  at  the  indecorous  liberties  of 
Elia.  The  good  man  wots  not,  peradventure,  of  the 
licence  which  Magazines  have  arrived  at  in  this 
plain-speaking  age,  or  hardly  dreams  of  their  exist- 
ence beyond  the  Gentleman  s — his  furthest  monthly 
excursions  in  this  nature  having  been  long  confined 
to  the  holy  ground  of  honest  Urban  s  obituary.  May 
it  be  long  before  his  own  name  shall  help  to  swell 
those  columns  of  unenvied  flattery! — Meantime, 
O  ye  New  Benchers  of  the  Inner  Temple,  cherish 
him  kindly,  for  he  is  himself  the  kindliest  of  hu- 
184 


OLD   BENCHERS    OF    INNER   TEMPLE 

man  creatures.  Should  infirmities  overtake  him — 
he  is  yet  in  green  and  vigorous  senility — make 
allowances  for  them,  remembering  that  '*ye  your- 
selves are  old."  So  may  the  Winged  Horse,  your 
ancient  badge  and  cognisance,  still  flourish!  so  may 
future  Hookers  and  Seldens  illustrate  your  church 
and  chambers!  so  may  the  sparrows,  in  default  of 
more  melodious  quiristers,  unpoisoned  hop  about 
your  walks!  so  may  the  fresh-coloured  and  cleanly 
nursery-maid,  who,  by  leave,  airs  her  playful  charge 
in  your  stately  gardens,  drop  her  prettiest  blushing 
courtesy  as  ye  pass,  reductive  of  juvenescent  emo- 
tion! so  may  the  younkers  of  this  generation  eye 
you,  pacing  your  stately  terrace,  with  the  same 
superstitious  veneration  with  which  the  child  Elia 
gazed  on  the  Old  Worthies  that  solemnized  the 
parade  before  ye! 


185 


GRACE    BEFORE   MEAT 

THE  custom  of  saying  grace  at  meals  had, 
probably,  its  origin  in  the  early  times  of  the 
world,  and  the  hunter-state  of  man,  when  dinners 
were  precarious  things,  and  a  full  meal  was  some- 
thing more  than  a  common  blessing!  when  a  belly- 
full  was  a  wind-fall,  and  looked  like  a  special  provi- 
dence. In  the  shouts  and  triumphal  songs  with 
which,  after  a  season  of  sharp  abstinence,  a  lucky 
booty  of  deer's  or  goat's  flesh  would  naturally  be 
ushered  home,  existed,  perhaps,  the  germ  of  the 
modern  grace.  It  is  not  otherwise  easy  to  be  under- 
stood, why  the  blessing  of  food— the  act  of  eat- 
ing— should  have  had  a  particular  expression  of 
thanksgiving  annexed  to  it,  distinct  from  that  im- 
plied and  silent  gratitude  with  which  we  are  ex- 
pected to  enter  upon  the  enjoyment  of  the  many 
other  various  gifts  and  good  things  of  existence. 

I  own  that  I  am  disposed  to  say  grace  upon 
twenty  other  occasions  in  the  course  of  the  day 
besides  my  dinner.  I  want  a  form  for  setting  out 
upon  a  pleasant  walk,  for  a  moonlight  ramble,  for  a 
friendly  meeting,  or  a  solved  problem.  Why  have 
we  none  for  books,  those  spiritual  repasts — a  grace 
before  Milton — a  grace  before  Shakspeare — a  de- 
votional exercise  proper  to  be  said  before  reading 
the  Fairy  Queen? — but  the  received  ritual  having 
prescribed  these  forms  to  the  solitary  ceremony  of 
186 


GRACE   BEFORE   MEAT 

manducation,  I  shall  confine  my  observations  to 
the  experience  which  I  have  had  of  the  grace,  prop- 
erly so  called;  commending  my  new  scheme  for  ex- 
tension to  a  niche  in  the  grand  philosophical,  poeti- 
cal, and  perchance  in  part  heretical,  liturgy,  now 
compiling  by  my  friend  Homo  Human  us,  for  the 
use  of  a  certain  snug  congregation  of  Utopian  Ra- 
belaesian  Christians,  no  matter  where  assembled. 

The  form,  then,  of  the  benediction  before  eating 
has  its  beauty  at  a  poor  man's  table,  or  at  the  sim- 
ple and  unprovocative  repast  of  children.  It  is  here 
that  the  grace  becomes  exceedingly  graceful.  The 
indigent  man,  who  hardly  knows  whether  he  shall 
have  a  meal  the  next  day  or  not,  sits  down  to  his 
fare  with  a  present  sense  of  the  blessing,  which  can 
be  but  feebly  acted  by  the  rich,  into  whose  minds 
the  conception  of  wanting  a  dinner  could  never,  but 
by  some  extreme  theory,  have  entered.  The  proper 
end  of  food — the  animal  sustenance — is  barely  con- 
templated by  them.  The  poor  man's  bread  is  his 
daily  bread,  literally  his  bread  for  the  day.  Their 
courses  are  perennial. 

Again,  the  plainest  diet  seems  the  fittest  to  be 
preceded  by  the  grace.  That  which  is  least  stimu- 
lative to  appetite,  leaves  the  mind  most  free  for 
foreign  considerations.  A  man  may  feel  thankful, 
heartily  thankful,  over  a  dish  of  plain  mutton  with 
turnips,  and  have  leisure  to  reflect  upon  the  ordi- 
nance and  institution  of  eating;  when  he  shall  con- 
fess a  perturbation  of  mind,  inconsistent  with  the 

187 


THE   ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

purposes  of  the  grace,  at  the  presence  of  venison  or 
turtle.  When  I  have  sate  (a  varus  hospes)  at  rich 
men's  tables,  with  the  savoury  soup  and  messes 
steaming  up  the  nostrils,  and  moistening  the  lips 
of  the  guests  with  desire  and  a  distracted  choice,  I 
have  felt  the  introduction  of  that  ceremony  to  be 
unseasonable.  With  the  ravenous  orgasm  upon  you, 
it  seems  impertinent  to  interpose  a  religious  senti- 
ment. It  is  a  confusion  of  purpose  to  mutter  out 
praises  from  a  mouth  that  waters.  The  heats  of 
epicurism  put  out  the  gentle  flame  of  devotion. 
The  incense  which  rises  round  is  pagan,  and  the 
belly-god  intercepts  it  for  its  own.  The  very  excess 
of  the  provision  beyond  the  needs,  takes  away  all 
sense  of  proportion  between  the  end  and  means. 
The  giver  is  veiled  by  his  gifts.  You  are  startled  at 
the  injustice  of  returning  thanks — for  what? — for 
having  too  much  while  so  many  starve.  It  is  to 
praise  the  Gods  amiss. 

I  have  observed  this  awkwardness  felt,  scarce 
consciously  perhaps,  by  the  good  man  who  says 
the  grace.  I  have  seen  it  in  clergymen  and  others 
— a  sort  of  shame — a  sense  of  the  copresence  of  cir- 
cumstances which  unhallow  the  blessing.  After  a 
devotional  tone  put  on  for  a  few  seconds,  how  rap- 
idly the  speaker  will  fall  into  his  common  voice! 
helping  himself  or  his  neighbour,  as  if  to  get  rid  of 
some  uneasy  sensation  of  hypocrisy.  Not  that  the 
good  man  was  a  hypocrite,  or  was  not  most  con- 
scientious in  the  discharge  of  the  duty ;  but  he  felt 
188 


GRACE   BEFORE   MEAT 

in  his  inmost  mind  the  incompatibility  of  the  scene 
and  the  viands  before  him  with  the  exercise  of  a 
calm  and  rational  gratitude. 

I  hear  somebody  exclaim,  —  Would  you  have 
Christians  sit  down  at  table  like  hogs  to  their 
troughs,  without  remembering  the  Giver? — no — 
I  would  have  them  sit  down  as  Christians,  remem- 
bering the  Giver,  and  less  like  hogs.  Or,  if  their 
appetites  must  run  riot,  and  they  must  pamper 
themselves  with  delicacies  for  which  east  and  west 
are  ransacked,  I  would  have  them  postpone  their 
benediction  to  a  fitter  season,  when  appetite  is  laid ; 
when  the  still  small  voice  can  be  heard,  and  the  rea- 
son of  the  grace  returns — with  temperate  diet  and 
restricted  dishes.  Gluttony  and  surfeiting  are  no 
proper  occasions  for  thanksgiving.  When  Jeshurun 
waxed  fat,  we  read  that  he  kicked.  Virgil  knew  the 
harpy-nature  better,  when  he  put  into  the  mouth 
of  Celffino  anything  but  a  blessing.  We  may  be 
gratefully  sensible  of  the  deliciousness  of  some  kinds 
of  food  beyond  others,  though  that  is  a  meaner  and 
inferior  gratitude :  but  the  proper  object  of  the  grace 
is  sustenance,  not  relishes;  daily  bread,  not  deli- 
cacies ;  the  means  of  life,  and  not  the  means  of  pam- 
pering the  carcass.  With  what  frame  or  composure, 
I  wonder,  can  a  city  chaplain  pronounce  his  bene- 
diction at  some  great  Hall  feast,  when  he  knows 
that  his  last  concluding  pious  word — and  that  in  all 
probability,  the  sacred  name  which  he  preaches — is 
but  the  signal  for  so  many  impatient  harpies  to  com- 

189 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

mence  their  foul  orgies,  with  as  Httle  sense  of  true 
thankfulness  (which  is  temperance)  as  those  Vir- 
gilian  fowl !  It  is  well  if  the  good  man  himself  does 
not  feel  his  devotions  a  little  clouded,  those  foggy 
sensuous  steams  mingling  with  and  polluting  the 
pure  altar  sacrifice. 

The  severest  satire  upon  full  tables  and  surfeits 
is  the  banquet  which  Satan,  in  the  "Paradise  Re- 
gained," provides  for  a  temptation  in  the  wilderness : 

A  table  richly  spread  in  regal  mode 
With  dishes  piled,  and  meats  of  noblest  sort 
And  savour;  beasts  of  chase,  or  fowl  of  game. 
In  pastry  built,  or  from  the  spit,  or  boiled, 
Gris-amber-steamed ;  all  fish  from  sea  or  shore. 
Freshet  or  purling  brook,  for  which  was  drained 
Pontus,  and  Lucrine  bay,  and  Afric  coast. 

The  Tempter,  I  warrant  you,  thought  these  cates 
would  go  down  without  the  recommendatory  pre- 
face of  a  benediction.  They  are  like  to  be  short 
graces  where  the  devil  plays  the  host.  I  am  afraid 
the  poet  wants  his  usual  decorum  in  this  place.  Was 
he  thinking  of  the  old  Roman  luxury,  or  of  a  gaudy 
day  at  Cambridge  ?  This  was  a  temptation  fitter  for 
a  Heliogabalus.  The  whole  banquet  is  too  civic  and 
culinary,  and  the  accompaniments  altogether  a  prof- 
anation of  that  deep,  abstracted,  holy  scene.  The 
mighty  artillery  of  sauces,  which  the  cook-fiend 
conjures  up,  is  out  of  proportion  to  the  simple 
wants  and  plain  hunger  of  the  guest.  He  that  dis- 
turbed him  in  his  dreams,  from  his  dreams  might 
190 


GRACE   BEFORE   MEAT 

have  been  taught  better.  To  the  temperate  fantasies 
of  the  famished  Son  of  God,  what  sort  of  feasts  pre- 
sented themselves? — He  dreamed  indeed, 

— As  appetite  is  wont  to  dream. 

Of  meats  and  drinks,  nature's  refreshment  sweet. 

But  what  meats  ? — 

Him  thought  he  by  the  brook  of  Cherith  stood. 

And  saw  the  ravens  with  their  horny  beaks 

Food  to  EHjah  bringing,  even  and  morn; 

Though  ravenous,  taught  to  abstain  from  what  they  brought. 

He  saw  the  prophet  also  how  he  fled 

Into  the  desert,  and  how  there  he  slept 

Under  a  juniper;  then  how  awaked 

He  found  his  supper  on  the  coals  prepared. 

And  by  the  angel  was  bid  rise  and  eat. 

And  ate  the  second  time  after  repose. 

The  strength  whereof  sufficed  him  forty  days: 

Sometimes,  that  with  Elijah  he  partook, 

Or  as  a  guest  with  Daniel  at  his  pulse. 

Nothing  in  Milton  is  finelier  fancied  than  these 
temperate  dreams  of  the  divine  Hungerer.  To  which 
of  these  two  visionary  banquets,  think  you,  would 
the  introduction  of  what  is  called  the  grace  have 
been  the  most  fitting  and  pertinent  ? 

Theoretically  I  am  no  enemy  to  graces ;  but  prac- 
tically I  own  that  (before  meat  especially)  they  seem 
to  involve  something  awkward  and  unseasonable. 
Our  appetites,  of  one  or  another  kind,  are  excellent 
spurs  to  our  reason,  which  might  otherwise  but 
feebly  set  about  the  great  ends  of  preserving  and 

191 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

continuing  the  species.  They  are  fit  blessings  to  be 
contemplated  at  a  distance  with  a  becoming  grati- 
tude; but  the  moment  of  appetite  (the  judicious 
reader  will  apprehend  me)  is,  perhaps,  the  least  fit 
season  for  that  exercise.  The  Quakers,  who  go  about 
their  business  of  every  description  with  more  calm- 
ness than  we,  have  more  title  to  the  use  of  these 
benedictory  prefaces.  I  have  always  admired  their 
silent  grace,  and  the  more  because  I  have  observed 
their  applications  to  the  meat  and  drink  following 
to  be  less  passionate  and  sensual  than  ours.  They 
are  neither  gluttons  nor  wine-bibbers  as  a  people. 
They  eat,  as  a  horse  bolts  his  chopped  hay,  with 
indifference,  calmness,  and  cleanly  circumstances. 
They  neither  grease  nor  slop  themselves.  When  I 
see  a  citizen  in  his  bib  and  tucker,  I  cannot  imagine 
it  a  surplice. 

I  am  no  Quaker  at  my  food.  I  confess  I  am  not 
indifferent  to  the  kinds  of  it.  Those  unctuous  mor- 
sels of  deer's  flesh  were  not  made  to  be  received 
with  dispassionate  services.  I  hate  a  man  who  swal- 
lows it,  affecting  not  to  know  what  he  is  eating.  I 
suspect  his  taste  in  higher  matters.  I  shrink  in- 
stinctively from  one  who  professes  to  like  minced 
veal.  There  is  a  physiognomical  character  in  the 

tastes  for  food.  C holds  that   a  man  cannot 

have  a  pure  mind  who  refuses  apple-dumplings.  I 
am  not  certain  but  he  is  right.  With  the  decay  of 
my  first  innocence,  I  confess  a  less  and  less  relish 
daily  for  those  innocuous  cates.  The  whole  vege- 
192 


GRACE   BEFORE   MEAT 

table  tribe  have  lost  their  gust  with  me.  Only  I  stick 
to  asparagus,  which  still  seems  to  inspire  gentle 
thoughts.  I  am  impatient  and  querulous  under  culi- 
nary disappointments,  as  to  come  home  at  the  din- 
ner hour,  for  instance,  expecting  some  savoury  mess, 
and  to  find  one  quite  tasteless  and  sapidless.  Butter 
ill  melted — that  commonest  of  kitchen  failures — 
puts  me  beside  my  tenor. — The  author  of  the  Ram- 
bler used  to  make  inarticulate  animal  noises  over  a 
favourite  food.  Was  this  the  music  quite  proper  to 
be  preceded  by  the  grace  ?  or  would  the  pious  man 
have  done  better  to  postpone  his  devotions  to  a 
season  when  the  blessing  might  be  contemplated 
with  less  perturbation?  I  quarrel  with  no  man's 
tastes,  nor  would  set  my  thin  face  against  those  ex- 
cellent things,  in  their  way,  jollity  and  feasting.  But 
as  these  exercises,  however  laudable,  have  little  in 
them  of  grace  or  gracefulness,  a  man  should  be  sure, 
before  he  ventures  so  to  grace  them,  that  while  he 
is  pretending  his  devotions  otherwhere,  he  is  not 
secretly  kissing  his  hand  to  some  great  fish — his 
Dagon — with  a  special  consecration  of  no  ark  but 
the  fat  tureen  before  him.  Graces  are  the  sweet 
preluding  strains  to  the  banquets  of  angels  and  chil- 
dren ;  to  the  roots  and  severer  repasts  of  the  Char- 
treuse; to  the  slender,  but  not  slenderly  acknow- 
ledged, refection  of  the  poor  and  humble  man:  but 
at  the  heaped-up  boards  of  the  pampered  and  the 
luxurious  they  become  of  dissonant  mood,  less  timed 
and  tuned  to  the  occasion,  methinks,  than  the  noise 

193 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

of  those  better  befitting  organs  would  be  which  chil- 
dren hear  tales  of,  at  Hog  s  Norton.  We  sit  too  long 
at  our  meals,  or  are  too  curious  in  the  study  of 
them,  or  too  disordered  in  our  application  to  them, 
or  engross  too  great  a  portion  of  those  good  things 
(which  should  be  common)  to  our  share,  to  be  able 
with  any  grace  to  say  grace.  To  be  thankful  for 
what  we  grasp  exceeding  our  proportion,  is  to  add 
hypocrisy  to  injustice.  A  lurking  sense  of  this  truth 
is  what  makes  the  performance  of  this  duty  so  cold 
and  spiritless  a  service  at  most  tables.  In  houses 
where  the  grace  is  as  indispensable  as  the  napkin, 
who  has  not  seen  that  never-settled  question  arise, 
as  to  who  shall  say  it?  while  the  good  man  of  the 
house  and  the  visitor  clergyman,  or  some  other 
guest  belike  of  next  authority,  from  years  or  gravity, 
shall  be  bandying  about  the  office  between  them  as 
a  matter  of  compliment,  each  of  them  not  unwill- 
ing to  shift  the  awkward  burthen  of  an  equivocal 
duty  from  his  own  shoulders  ? 

I  once  drank  tea  in  company  with  two  Methodist 
divines  of  different  persuasions,  whom  it  was  my 
fortune  to  introduce  to  each  other  for  the  first  time 
that  evening.  Before  the  first  cup  was  handed  round, 
one  of  these  reverend  gentlemen  put  it  to  the  other, 
with  all  due  solemnity,  whether  he  chose  to  say 
anything.  It  seems  it  is  the  custom  with  some  sec- 
taries to  put  up  a  short  prayer  before  this  meal  also. 
His  reverend  brother  did  not  at  first  quite  appre- 
hend him,  but  upon  an  explanation,  with  little  less 
194 


GRACE   BEFORE   MEAT 

importance  he  made  answer  that  it  was  not  a  custom 
known  in  his  church:  in  which  courteous  evasion 
the  other  acquiescing  for  good  manners'  sake,  or  in 
compUance  with  a  weak  brother,  the  supplementary 
or  tea  grace  was  waived  altogether.  With  what 
spirit  might  not  Lucian  have  painted  two  priests,  of 
his  religion,  playing  into  each  other's  hands  the  com- 
pliment of  performing  or  omitting  a  sacrifice, — the 
hungry  God  meantime,  doubtful  of  his  incense,  with 
expectant  nostrils  hovering  over  the  two  flamens, 
and  (as  between  two  stools)  going  away  in  the  end 
without  his  supper. 

A  short  form  upon  these  occasions  is  felt  to  want 
reverence;  a  long  one,  I  am  afraid,  cannot  escape 
the  charge  of  impertinence.  I  do  not  quite  approve 
of  the  epigrammatic  conciseness  with  which  that 
equivocal  wag  (but  my  pleasant  school-fellow)  C. 
V.  L.,  when  importuned  for  a  grace,  used  to  inquire, 
first  slyly  leering  down  the  table,  '*  Is  there  no  clergy- 
man here?" — significantly  adding,  "Thank  G — ." 
Nor  do  I  think  our  old  form  at  school  quite  pertinent 
where  we  were  used  to  preface  our  bald  bread-and- 
cheese-suppers  with  a  preamble,  connecting  with 
that  humble  blessing  a  recognition  of  benefits  the 
most  awful  and  overwhelming  to  the  imagination 
which  rehgion  has  to  offer.  Non  tunc  illis  erat  locus. 
I  remember  we  were  put  to  it  to  reconcile  the 
phrase  "good  creatures,"  upon  which  the  blessing 
rested,  with  the  fare  set  before  us,  wilfully  under- 
standing that  expression  in  a  low  and  animal  sense, 

195 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

— till  some  one  recalled  a  legend,  which  told  how, 
in  the  golden  days  of  Christ's,  the  young  Hospi- 
tallers were  wont  to  have  smoking  joints  of  roast 
meat  upon  their  nightly  boards,  till  some  pious 
benefactor,  commiserating  the  decencies,  rather 
than  the  palates,  of  the  children,  commuted  our 
flesh  for  garments,  and  gave  us — horresco  refer  ens 
— trousers  instead  of  mutton. 


196 


DREAM  CHILDREN;  A  REVERIE 

CHILDREN  love  to  listen  to  stories  about 
their  elders,  when  they  were  children;  to 
stretch  their  imagination  to  the  conception  of  a 
traditionary  great-uncle,  or  grandame,  whom  they 
never  saw.  It  was  in  this  spirit  that  my  little  ones 
crept  about  me  the  other  evening  to  hear  about 
their  great-grandmother  Field,  who  lived  in  a  great 
house  in  Norfolk  (a  hundred  times  bigger  than  that 
in  which  they  and  papa  lived)  which  had  been  the 
scene — so  at  least  it  was  generally  believed  in  that 
part  of  the  country — of  the  tragic  incidents  which 
they  had  lately  become  familiar  with  from  the  bal- 
lad of  the  Children  in  the  Wood.  Certain  it  is  that 
the  whole  story  of  the  children  and  their  cruel 
uncle  was  to  be  seen  fairly  carved  out  in  wood 
upon  the  chimney-piece  of  the  great  hall,  the 
whole  story  down  to  the  Robin  Redbreasts,  tiU  a 
foolish  rich  person  pulled  it  down  to  set  up  a 
marble  one  of  modern  invention  in  its  stead,  with 
no  story  upon  it.  Here  Alice  put  out  one  of  her 
dear  mother's  looks,  too  tender  to  be  called  up- 
braiding. Then  I  went  on  to  say,  how  religious 
and  how  good  their  great-grandmother  Field  was, 
how  beloved  and  respected  by  everybody,  though 
she  was  not  indeed  the  mistress  of  this  great  house, 
but  had  only  the  charge  of  it  (and  yet  in  some  re- 
spects she  might  be  said  to  be  the  mistress  of  it 

197 


THE   ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

too)  committed  to  her  by  the  owner,  who  preferred 
living  in  a  newer  and  more  fashionable  mansion 
which  he  had  purchased  somewhere  in  the  adjoin- 
ing county;  but  still  she  lived  in  it  in  a  manner  as 
if  it  had  been  her  own,  and  kept  up  the  dignity  of 
the  great  house  in  a  sort  while  she  lived,  which 
afterwards  came  to  decay,  and  was  nearly  pulled 
down,  and  all  its  old  ornaments  stripped  and  car- 
ried away  to  the  owner's  other  house,  where  they 
were  set  up,  and  looked  as  awkward  as  if  some  one 
were  to  carry  away  the  old  tombs  they  had  seen 
lately  at  the  Abbey,  and  stick  them  up  in  Lady 
C.'s  tawdry  gilt  drawing-room.  Here  John  smiled, 
as  much  as  to  say,  "that  would  be  foohsh  indeed." 
And  then  I  told  how,  when  she  came  to  die,  her 
funeral  was  attended  by  a  concourse  of  all  the 
poor,  and  some  of  the  gentry  too,  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood for  many  miles  round,  to  show  their  re- 
spect for  her  memory,  because  she  had  been  such  a 
good  and  religious  woman ;  so  good  indeed  that  she 
knew  all  the  Psaltery  by  heart,  ay,  and  a  great 
part  of  the  Testament  besides.  Here  little  Alice 
spread  her  hands.  Then  I  told  what  a  tall,  upright, 
graceful  person  their  great-grandmother  Field  once 
was;  and  how  in  her  youth  she  was  esteemed  the 
best  dancer — here  Alice's  little  right  foot  played 
an  involuntary  movement,  till,  upon  my  looking 
grave,  it  desisted — the  best  dancer,  I  was  saying, 
in  the  county,  till  a  cruel  disease,  called  a  cancer, 
came,  and  bowed  her  down  with  pain ;  but  it  could 
198 


DREAM  CHILDREN;  A  REVERIE 

never  bend  her  good  spirits,  or  make  them  stoop, 
but  they  were  still  upright,  because  she  was  so 
good  and  religious.  Then  1  told  how  she  was  used 
to  sleep  by  herself  in  a  lone  chamber  of  the  great 
lone  house;  and  how  she  believed  that  an  appari- 
tion of  two  infants  was  to  be  seen  at  midnight  glid- 
ing up  and  down  the  great  staircase  near  where  she 
slept,  but  she  said  "those  innocents  would  do  her 
no  harm";  and  how  frightened  I  used  to  be,  though 
in  those  days  I  had  my  maid  to  sleep  with  me,  be- 
cause I  was  never  half  so  good  or  religious  as  she 
— and  yet  I  never  saw  the  infants.  Here  John  ex- 
panded all  his  eyebrows  and  tried  to  look  coura- 
geous. Then  I  told  how  good  she  was  to  all  her 
grandchildren,  having  us  to  the  great  house  in  the 
holy-days,  where  I  in  particular  used  to  spend  many 
hours  by  myself,  in  gazing  upon  the  old  busts  of  the 
twelve  Caesars,  that  had  been  Emperors  of  Rome, 
till  the  old  marble  heads  would  seem  to  live  again, 
or  I  to  be  turned  into  marble  with  them;  how  I 
never  could  be  tired  with  roaming  about  that  huge 
mansion,  with  its  vast  empty  rooms,  with  their 
worn-out  hangings,  fluttering  tapestry,  and  carved 
oaken  panels,  with  the  gilding  almost  rubbed  out 
— sometimes  in  the  spacious  old-fashioned  gardens, 
which  I  had  almost  to  myself,  unless  when  now 
and  then  a  solitary  gardening  man  would  cross  me 
— and  how  the  nectarines  and  peaches  hung  upon 
the  walls,  without  my  ever  offering  to  pluck  them, 
because  they  were  forbidden  fruit,  unless  now  and 

199 


THE   ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

then, — and  because  I  had  more  pleasure  in  stroll- 
ing about  among  the  old  melancholy-looking  yew- 
trees,  or  the  firs,  and  picking  up  the  red  berries, 
and  the  fir-apples,  which  were  good  for  nothing  but 
to  look  at — or  in  lying  about  upon  the  fresh  grass 
with  all  the  fine  garden  smells  around  me — or  bask- 
ing in  the  orangery,  till  I  could  almost  fancy  myself 
ripening  too  along  with  the  oranges  and  the  limes 
in  that  grateful  warmth — or  in  watching  the  dace 
that  darted  to  and  fro  in  the  fish-pond,  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  garden,  with  here  and  there  a  great 
sulky  pike  hanging  midway  down  the  water  in 
silent  state,  as  if  it  mocked  at  their  impertinent 
friskings, — I  had  more  pleasure  in  these  busy-idle 
diversions  than  in  all  the  sweet  flavours  of  peaches, 
nectarines,  oranges,  and  such-like  common  baits  of 
children.  Here  John  slyly  deposited  back  upon  the 
plate  a  bunch  of  grapes,  which,  not  unobserved  by 
Alice,  he  had  meditated  dividing  with  her,  and  both 
seemed  willing  to  relinquish  them  for  the  present 
as  irrelevant.  Then,  in  somewhat  a  more  heightened 
tone,  I  told  how,  though  their  great-grandmother 
Field  loved  all  her  grandchildren,  yet  in  an  especial 
manner  she  might  be  said  to  love  their  uncle,  John 

L ,  because  he  was  so  handsome  and  spirited  a 

youth,  and  a  king  to  the  rest  of  us ;  and,  instead  of 
moping  about  in  solitary  corners,  like  some  of  us, 
he  would  mount  the  most  mettlesome  horse  he 
could  get,  when  but  an  imp  no  bigger  than  them- 
selves, and  make  it  carry  him  half  over  the  county 
200 


DREAM   CHILDREN;  A  REVERIE 

in  a  morning,  and  join  the  hunters  when  there  were 
any  out — and  yet  he  loved  the  old  great  house  and 
gardens  too,  but  had  too  much  spirit  to  be  always 
pent  up  within  their  boundaries — and  how  their 
uncle  grew  up  to  man's  estate  as  brave  as  he  was 
handsome,  to  the  admiration  of  everybody,  but  of 
their  great-grandmother  Field  most  especially ;  and 
how  he  used  to  carry  me  upon  his  back  when  I  was 
a  lame-footed  boy — for  he  was  a  good  bit  older 
than  me — many  a  mile  when  I  could  not  walk  for 
pain; — and  how  in  after  life  he  became  lame-footed 
too,  and  I  did  not  always  (I  fear)  make  allowances 
enough  for  him  when  he  was  impatient  and  in  pain, 
nor  remember  sufficiently  how  considerate  he  had 
been  to  me  when  I  was  lame-footed;  and  how 
when  he  died,  though  he  had  not  been  dead  an 
hour,  it  seemed  as  if  he  had  died  a  great  while  ago, 
such  a  distance  there  is  betwixt  life  and  death ;  and 
how  I  bore  his  death  as  I  thought  pretty  well  at 
first,  but  afterwards  it  haunted  and  haunted  me; 
and  though  I  did  not  cry  or  take  it  to  heart  as 
some  do,  and  as  I  think  he  would  have  done  if  I 
had  died,  yet  I  missed  him  all  day  long,  and  knew 
not  till  then  how  much  I  had  loved  him.  I  missed 
his  kindness,  and  I  missed  his  crossness,  and  wished 
him  to  be  alive  again,  to  be  quarrelling  with  him 
(for  we  quarrelled  sometimes),  rather  than  not  have 
him  again,  and  was  as  uneasy  without  him,  as  he, 
their  poor  uncle,  must  have  been  when  the  doctor 
took  off  his  limb. — Here  the  children  fell  a-crying, 

201 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

and  asked  if  their  little  mourning  which  they  had 
on  was  not  for  uncle  John,  and  they  looked  up, 
and  prayed  me  not  to  go  on  about  their  uncle,  but 
to  tell  them  some  stories  about  their  pretty  dead 
mother.  Then  I  told  how  for  seven  long  years,  in 
hope  sometimes,  sometimes  in  despair,  yet  persist- 
ing ever,  I  courted  the  fair  Alice  W n;  and  as 

much  as  children  could  understand,  I  explained  to 
them  what  coyness,  and  difficulty,  and  denial,  meant 
in  maidens — when  suddenly  turning  to  Alice,  the 
soul  of  the  first  Alice  looked  out  at  her  eyes  with 
such  a  reality  of  re-presentment,  that  I  became  in 
doubt  which  of  them  stood  there  before  me,  or 
whose  that  bright  hair  was;  and  while  I  stood  gaz- 
ing, both  the  children  gradually  gTew  fainter  to  my 
view,  receding,  and  still  receding,  till  nothing  at 
last  but  two  mournful  features  were  seen  in  the  ut- 
termost distance,  which,  without  speech,  strangely 
impressed  upon  me  the  effects  of  speech:  "We  are 
not  of  Alice,  nor  of  thee,  nor  are  we  children  at  all. 
The  children  of  Alice  call  Bartrum  father.  We  are 
nothing;  less  than  nothing,  and  dreams.  We  are 
only  what  might  have  been,  and  must  wait  upon 
the  tedious  shores  of  Lethe  millions  of  ages  before 
we  have  existence,  and  a  name" and  immedi- 
ately awaking,  I  found  myself  quietly  seated  in  my 
bachelor  arm-chair,  where  I  had  fallen  asleep,  with 
the  faithful  Bridget  unchanged  by  my  side — but 
John  L.  (or  James  Elia)  was  gone  for  ever. 


202 


DISTANT   CORRESPONDENTS 

IN   A   LETTER   TO   B.    F.    ESQ.,   AT    SYDNEY, 
NEW    SOUTH    WALES 

MY  DEAR  F. — When  I  think  how  welcome  the 
sight  of  a  letter  from  the  world  where  you 
were  born  must  be  to  you  in  that  strange  one  to 
which  you  have  been  transplanted,  I  feel  some  com- 
punctious visitings  at  my  long  silence.  But,  indeed, 
it  is  no  easy  effort  to  set  about  a  correspondence  at 
our  distance.  The  weary  world  of  waters  between  us 
oppresses  the  imagination.  It  is  difficult  to  conceive 
how  a  scrawl  of  mine  should  ever  stretch  across 
it.  It  is  a  sort  of  presumption  to  expect  that  one's 
thoughts  should  live  so  far.  It  is  like  writing  for  pos- 
terity ;  and  reminds  me  of  one  of  Mrs.  Rowe's  super- 
scriptions, "Alcander  to  Strephon  in  the  shades." 
Cowley's  Post- Angel  is  no  more  than  would  be  ex- 
pedient in  such  an  intercourse.  One  drops  a  packet 
at  Lombard-street,  and  in  twenty-four  hours  a  friend 
in  Cumberland  gets  it  as  fresh  as  if  it  came  in  ice. 
It  is  only  like  whispering  through  a  long  trumpet. 
But  suppose  a  tube  let  down  from  the  moon,  with 
yourself  at  one  end  and  the  man  at  the  other;  it 
would  be  some  balk  to  the  spirit  of  conversation,  if 
you  knew  that  the  dialogue  exchanged  with  that 
interesting  theosophist  would  take  two  or  three  rev- 
olutions of  a  higher  luminary  in  its  passage.  Yet,  for 
aught  I  know,  you  may  be  some  parasangs  nigher 

203 


THE   ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

that  primitive  idea — Plato's  man — than  we  in  Eng- 
land here  have  the  honour  to  reckon  ourselveSo 

Epistolary  matter  usually  compriseth  three  topics; 
news,  sentiment,  and  puns.  In  the  latter,  I  include 
all  non-serious  subjects;  or  subjects  serious  in  them- 
selves, but  treated  after  my  fashion,  non-seriously. 
— And  first,  for  news.  In  them  the  most  desirable 
circumstance,  I  suppose,  is  that  they  shall  be  true. 
But  what  security  can  I  have  that  what  I  now  send 
you  for, truth  shall  not,  before  you  get  it,  unac- 
countably turn  into  a  lie  ?  For  instance,  our  mutual 
friend  P.  is  at  this  present  writing — my  Now — in 
good  health,  and  enjoys  a  fair  share  of  worldly  rep- 
utation. You  are  glad  to  hear  it.  This  is  natural  and 
friendly.  But  at  this  present  reading — your  Now — 
he  may  possibly  be  in  the  Bench,  or  going  to  be 
hanged,  which  in  reason  ought  to  abate  something 
of  your  transport  {i.  e.,  at  hearing  he  was  well,  etc.), 
or  at  least  considerably  to  modify  it.  I  am  going  to 
the  play  this  evening,  to  have  a  laugh  with  Munden. 
You  have  no  theatre,  I  think  you  told  me,  in  your 

land  of  d d  realities.  You  naturally  lick  your 

lips,  and  envy  me  my  felicity.  Think  but  a  moment, 
and  you  will  correct  the  hateful  emotion.  Why,  it 
is  Sunday  morning  with  you,  and  1823.  This  con- 
fusion of  tenses,  this  grand  solecism  of  two  presents, 
is  in  a  degree  common  to  all  postage.  But  if  I  sent 
you  word  to  Bath  or  Devizes,  that  I  was  expecting 
the  aforesaid  treat  this  evening,  though  at  the  mo- 
ment you  received  the  intelligence  my  full  feast  of 
204 


DISTANT   CORRESPONDENTS 

fun  would  be  over,  yet  there  would  be  for  a  day  or 
two  after,  as  you  would  well  know,  a  smack,  a  relish 
left  upon  my  mental  palate,  which  would  give  ra- 
tional encouragement  for  you  to  foster  a  portion,  at 
least,  of  the  disagreeable  passion,  which  it  was  in 
part  my  intention  to  produce.  But  ten  months 
hence,  your  envy  or  your  sympathy  would  be  as 
useless  as  a  passion  spent  upon  the  dead.  Not  only 
does  truth,  in  these  long  intervals,  unessence  her- 
self, but  (what  is  harder)  one  cannot  venture  a  crude 
fiction,  for  the  fear  that  it  may  ripen  into  a  truth 
upon  the  voyage.  What  a  wild  improbable  banter  I 

put  upon  you,  some  three  years  since, of  Will 

Weatherall  having  married  a  servant-maid  I  I  re- 
member gravely  consulting  you  how  we  were  to 
receive  her — for  AVill's  wife  was  in  no  case  to  be 
rejected;  and  your  no  less  serious  replication  in  the 
matter;  how  tenderly  you  advised  an  abstemious  in- 
troduction of  literary  topics  before  the  lady,  with  a 
caution  not  to  be  too  forward  in  bringing  on  the 
carpet  matters  more  within  the  sphere  of  her  intel- 
ligence; your  deliberate  judgment,  or  rather  wise 
suspension  of  sentence,  how  far  jacks,  and  spits,  and 
mops,  could,  with  propriety,  be  introduced  as  sub- 
jects; whether  the  conscious  avoiding  of  all  such 
matters  in  discourse  would  not  have  a  worse  look 
than  the  taking  of  them  casually  in  our  way;  in 
what  manner  we  should  carry  ourselves  to  our  maid 
Becky,  Mrs.  Wilham  Weatherall  being  by ;  whether 
we  should  show  more  delicacy,  and  a  truer  sense  of 

205 


THE   ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

respect  for  Will's  wife,  by  treating  Becky  with  our 
customary  chiding  before  her,  or  by  an  unusual  def- 
erential civility  paid  to  Becky,  as  to  a  person  of 
great  worth,  but  thrown  by  the  caprice  of  fate  into 
a  humble  station.  There  were  difficulties,  I  remem- 
ber, on  both  sides,  which  you  did  me  the  favour  to 
state  with  the  precision  of  a  lawyer,  united  to  the 
tenderness  of  a  friend.  I  laughed  in  my  sleeve  at 
your  solemn  pleadings,  when  lo !  while  I  was  valu- 
ing myself  upon  this  flam  put  upon  you  in  New 
South  Wales,  the  devil  in  England,  jealous  possibly 
of  any  lie-children  not  his  own,  or  working  after  my 
copy,  has  actually  instigated  our  friend  (not  three 
days  since)  to  the  commission  of  a  matrimony, 
which  I  had  only  conjured  up  for  your  diversion. 
William  Weatherall  has  married  Mrs.  Cotterel's 
maid.  But  to  take  it  in  its  truest  sense,  you  will 
see,  my  dear  F.,  that  news  from  me  must  become 
history  to  you ;  which  I  neither  profess  to  write,  nor 
indeed  care  much  for  reading.  No  person,  under  a 
diviner,  can,  with  any  prospect  of  veracity,  conduct 
a  correspondence  at  such  an  arm's  length.  Two 
prophets,  indeed,  might  thus  interchange  intelli- 
gence with  effect ;  the  epoch  of  the  writer  (Habak- 
kuk)  falling  in  with  the  true  present  time  of  the 
receiver  (Daniel);  but  then  we  are  no  prophets. 

Then  as  to  sentiment.  It  fares  little  better  with 

that.  This  kind  of  dish,  above  all,  requires  to  be 

served  up  hot,  or  sent  off^  in  water-plates,  that  your 

friend  may  have  it  almost  as  warm  as  yourself.  If  it 

206 


DISTANT   CORRESPONDENTS 

have  time  to  cool,  it  is  the  most  tasteless  of  all  cold 
meats.  I  have  often  smiled  at  a  conceit  of  the  late 
Lord  C.  It  seems  that  travelling  somewhere  about 
Geneva,  he  came  to  some  pretty  green  spot,  or 
nook,  where  a  willow,  or  something,  hung  so  fan- 
tastically and  invitingly  over  a  stream — was  it? — 
or  a  rock? — no  matter — but  the  stillness  and  the 
repose,  after  a  weary  journey,  'tis  likely,  in  a  languid 
moment  of  his  Lordship's  hot,  restless  life,  so  took 
his  fancy  that  he  could  imagine  no  place  so  proper, 
in  the  event  of  his  death,  to  lay  his  bones  in.  This 
was  all  very  natural  and  excusable  as  a  sentiment, 
and  shows  his  character  in  a  very  pleasing  light.  But 
when  from  a  passing  sentiment  it  came  to  be  an 
act ;  and  when,  by  a  positive  testamentary  disposal, 
his  remains  were  actually  carried  all  that  way  from 
England ;  who  was  there,  some  desperate  sentimen- 
talists excepted,  that  did  not  ask  the  question.  Why 
could  not  his  Lordship  have  found  a  spot  as  solitary, 
a  nook  as  romantic,  a  tree  as  green  and  pendent, 
with  a  stream  as  emblematic  to  his  purpose,  in  Sur- 
rey, in  Dorset,  or  in  Devon?  Conceive  the  senti- 
ment boarded  up,  freighted,  entered  at  the  Custom 
House  (startling  the  tide-waiters  with  the  novelty), 
hoisted  into  a  ship.  Conceive  it  pawed  about  and 
handled  between  the  rude  jests  of  tarpaulin  ruffians 
— a  thing  of  its  delicate  texture — the  salt  bilge  wet- 
ting it  till  it  became  as  vapid  as  a  damaged  lustring. 
Suppose  it  in  material  danger  (mariners  have  some 
superstition  about  sentiments)  of  being  tossed  over 

207 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

in  a  fresh  gale  to  some  propitiatory  shark  (spirit  of 
Saint  Gothard,  save  us  from  a  quietus  so  foreign  to 
the  deviser's  purpose !)  but  it  has  happily  evaded  a 
fishy  consummation.  Trace  it  then  to  its  lucky  land- 
ing— at  Lyons  shall  we  say? — 1  have  not  the  map 
before  me — jostled  upon  four  men's  shoulders — 
baiting  at  this  town — stopping  to  refresh  at  t'other 
village — waiting  a  passport  here,  a  license  there; 
the  sanction  of  the  magistracy  in  this  district,  the 
concurrence  of  the  ecclesiastics  in  that  canton ;  till 
at  length  it  arrives  at  its  destination,  tired  out  and 
jaded,  from  a  brisk  sentiment  into  a  feature  of  silly 
pride  or  tawdry  senseless  affectation.  How  few  sen- 
timents, my  dear  F.,  I  am  afraid  we  can  set  down, 
in  the  sailor's  phrase,  as  quite  seaworthy. 

Lastly,  as  to  the  agreeable  levities,  which  though 
contemptible  in  bulk,  are  the  twinkling  corpuscula 
which  should  irradiate  a  right  friendly  epistle — your 
puns  and  small  jests  are,  I  apprehend,  extremely 
circumscribed  in  their  sphere  of  action.  They  are  so 
far  from  a  capacity  of  being  packed  up  and  sent  be- 
yond sea,  they  will  scarce  endure  to  be  transported 
by  hand  from  this  room  to  the  next.  Their  vigour  is 
as  the  instant  of  their  birth.  Their  nutriment  for 
their  brief  existence  is  the  intellectual  atmosphere 
of  the  bystanders:  or  this  last  is  the  fine  slime  of 
Nilus — the  melior  lutus — whose  maternal  recipi- 
ency is  as  necessary  as  the  sol  pater  to  their  equivo- 
cal generation.  A  pun  hath  a  hearty  kind  of  present 
ear-kissing  smack  with  it;  you  can  no  more  trans- 
208 


DISTANT   CORRESPONDENTS 

mit  it  in  its  pristine  flavour  than  you  can  send  a 
kiss. — Have  you  not  tried  in  some  instances  to 
palm  off  a  yesterday's  pun  upon  a  gentleman,  and 
has  it  answered  ?  Not  but  it  was  new  to  his  hearing, 
but  it  did  not  seem  to  come  new  from  you.  It  did 
not  hitch  in.  It  was  like  picking  up  at  a  village  ale- 
house a  two  days'-old  newspaper.  You  have  not 
seen  it  before,  but  you  resent  the  stale  thing  as  an 
affront.  This  sort  of  merchandize  above  all  requires 
a  quick  return.  A  pun,  and  its  recognitory  laugh, 
must  be  co-instantaneous.  The  one  is  the  brisk  light- 
ning, the  other  the  fierce  thunder.  A  moment's  in- 
terval, and  the  link  is  snapped.  A  pun  is  reflected 
from  a  friend's  face  as  from  a  mirror.  Who  would 
consult  his  sweet  visnomy,  if  the  polished  surface 
were  two  or  three  minutes  (not  to  speak  of  twelve 
months,  my  dear  F.)  in  giving  back  its  copy? 

I  cannot  image  to  myself  whereabout  you  are. 
When  I  try  to  fix  it,  Peter  Wilkins's  island  comes 
across  me.  Sometimes  you  seem  to  be  in  the  Hades 
of  Thieves.  I  see  Diogenes  prying  among  you  with 
his  perpetual  fi-uitless  lantern.  What  must  you  be 
willing  by  this  time  to  give  for  the  sight  of  an  hon- 
est man !  You  must  almost  have  forgotten  how  we 
look.  And  tell  me  what  your  Sydneyites  do?  are 
they  th**v*ng  all  day  long  ?  Merciful  Heaven  1  what 
property  can  stand  against  such  a  depredation !  The 
kangaroos  —  your  Aborigines — do  they  keep  their 
primitive  simplicity  un-Europe-tainted,  with  those 
little  short  fore-puds,  looking  like  a  lesson  framed 

209 


THE  ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

by  nature  to  the  pick-pocket !  Marry,  for  diving  into 
fobs  they  are  rather  lamely  provided  a  ^priori;  but 
if  the  hue  and  cry  were  once  up,  they  would  show 
as  fair  a  pair  of  hind-shifters  as  the  expertest  loco- 
motor in  the  colony.  We  hear  the  most  improbable 
tales  at  this  distance.  Pray  is  it  true  that  the  young 
Spartans  among  you  are  born  with  six  fingers, 
which  spoils  their  scanning? — It  must  look  very 
odd ;  but  use  reconciles.  For  their  scansion,  it  is  less 
to  be  regretted ;  for  if  they  take  it  into  their  heads 
to  be  poets,  it  is  odds  but  they  turn  out,  the  greater 
part  of  them,  vile  plagiarists.  Is  there  much  differ- 
ence to  see,  too,  between  the  son  of  a  th**f  and  the 
grandson?  or  where  does  the  taint  stop?  Do  you 
bleach  in  three  or  in  four  generations  ?  I  have  many 
questions  to  put,  but  ten  Delphic  voyages  can  be 
made  in  a  shorter  time  than  it  will  take  to  satisfy 
my  scruples.  Do  you  grow  your  own  hemp  ? — What 
is  your  staple  trade, — exclusive  of  the  national  pro- 
fession, I  mean?  Your  locksmiths,  I  take  it,  are 
some  of  your  great  capitalists. 

I  am  insensibly  chatting  to  you  as  familiarly  as 
when  we  used  to  exchange  good-morrows  out  of  our 
old  contiguous  windows,  in  pump-famed  Hare  Court 
in  the  Temple.  Why  did  you  ever  leave  that  quiet 
corner? — Why  did  I  ? — with  its  complement  of  four 
poor  elms,  from  whose  smoke-dyed  barks,  the  theme 
of  jesting  ruralists,  I  picked  my  first  ladybirds!  My 
heart  is  as  dry  as  that  spring  sometimes  proves  in  a 
thirsty  August,  when  I  revert  to  the  space  that  is 
210 


DISTANT  CORRESPONDENTS 

between  us ;  a  length  of  passage  enough  to  render 
obsolete  the  phrases  of  our  English  letters  before 
they  can  reach  you.  But  while  I  talk,  I  think  you 
hear  me, — thoughts  dallying  with  vain  surmise — 

Aye  me!  while  thee  the  seas  and  sounding  shores 
Hold  far  away. 

Come  back,  before  I  am  grown  into  a  very  old 
man,  so  as  you  shall  hardly  know  me.  Come,  before 
Bridget  walks  on  crutches.  Girls  whom  you  left 
children  have  become  sage  matrons  while  you  are 
tarrying  there.  The  blooming  Miss  W — r  (you  re- 
member Sally  W — r)  called  upon  us  yesterday,  an 
aged  crone.  Folks,  whom  you  knew,  die  off  every 
year.  Formerly,  I  thought  that  death  was  wearing 
out, — I  stood  ramparted  about  with  so  many  healthy 
friends.  The  departure  of  J.  W.,  two  springs  back, 
corrected  my  delusion.  Since  then  the  old  divorcer 
has  been  busy.  If  you  do  not  make  haste  to  return, 
there  will  be  Uttle  left  to  greet  you,  of  me,  or  mine. 


311 


THE   PRAISE 
OF   CHIMNEY-SWEEPERS 

I  LIKE  to  meet  a  sweep — understand  me — not 
a  grown  sweeper — old  chimney-sweepers  are  by 
no  means  attractive — but  one  of  those  tender  nov- 
ices, blooming  through  their  first  nigritude,  the  ma- 
ternal washings  not  quite  effaced  from  the  cheek 
— such  as  come  forth  with  the  dawn,  or  somewhat 
earlier,  with  their  little  professional  notes  sounding 
like  the  peep-peep  of  a  young  sparrow ;  or  liker  to 
the  matin  lark  should  I  pronounce  them,  in  their 
aerial  ascents  not  seldom  anticipating  the  sunrise  ? 

I  have  a  kindly  yearning  towards  these  dim 
specks — poor  blots — innocent  blacknesses — 

I  reverence  these  young  Africans  of  our  own 
growth — these  almost  clergy  imps,  who  sport  their 
cloth  without  assumption ;  and  from  their  little  pul- 
pits (the  tops  of  chimneys),  in  the  nipping  air  of  a 
December  morning,  preach  a  lesson  of  patience  to 
mankind. 

When  a  child,  what  a  mysterious  pleasure  it  was 
to  witness  their  operation !  to  see  a  chit  no  bigger 
than  one's  self,  enter,  one  knew  not  by  what  pro- 
cess, into  what  seemed  \he  fauces  Averni-^lo  pur- 
sue him  in  imagination,  as  he  went  sounding  on 
through  so  many  dark  stifling  caverns,  horrid  shades  I 
to  shudder  with  the  idea  that  "now,  surely  he  must 
be  lost  for  ever!" — to  revive  at  hearing  his  feeble 
212 


THE  PRAISE  OF  CHIMNEY-SWEEPERS 

shout  of  discovered  day-light — and  then  (O  fulness 
of  delight!)  running  out  of  doors,  to  come  just  in 
time  to  see  the  sable  phenomenon  emerge  in  safety, 
the  brandished  weapon  of  his  art  victorious  like 
some  flag  waved  over  a  conquered  citadel!  I  seem 
to  remember  having  been  told,  that  a  bad  sweep 
was  once  left  in  a  stack  with  his  brush,  to  indicate 
which  way  the  wind  blew.  It  was  an  awful  spec- 
tacle, certainly ;  not  much  unlike  the  old  stage  di- 
rection in  Macbeth,  where  the  "Apparition  of  a  child 
crowned,  with  a  tree  in  his  hand,  rises." 

Reader,  if  thou  meetest  one  of  these  small  gentry 
in  thy  early  rambles,  it  is  good  to  give  him  a  penny, 
— it  is  better  to  give  him  two-pence.  If  it  be  starv- 
ing weather,  and  to  the  proper  troubles  of  his  hard 
occupation,  a  pair  of  kibed  heels  (no  unusual  accom- 
paniment) be  superadded,  the  demand  on  thy  hu- 
manity will  surely  rise  to  a  tester. 

There  is  a  composition,  the  ground- work  of  which 
I  have  understood  to  be  the  sweet  wood  'yclept  sas- 
safras. This  wood  boiled  down  to  a  kind  of  tea,  and 
tempered  with  an  infusion  of  milk  and  sugar,  hath 
to  some  tastes  a  delicacy  beyond  the  China  luxury. 
I  know  not  how  thy  palate  may  relish  it ;  for  myself, 
with  every  deference  to  the  judicious  INIr.  Read,  who 
hath  time  out  of  mind  kept  open  a  shop  (the  only 
one  he  avers  in  London)  for  the  vending  of  this 
"wholesome  and  pleasant  beverage,"  on  the  south 
side  of  Fleet  Street,  as  thou  approachest  Bridge 
Street — the  only  Salopian  house —  I  have  never  yet 

213 


THE  ESSAYS  OF  ELIA 

adventured  to  dip  my  own  particular  lip  in  a  basin 
of  his  commended  ingredients — a  cautious  premo- 
nition to  the  olfactories  constantly  whispering  to  me, 
that  my  stomach  must  infallibly,  with  all  due  cour- 
tesy, decline  it.  Yet  I  have  seen  palates,  otherwise 
not  uninstructed  in  dietetical  elegancies,  sup  it  up 
with  avidity. 

I  know  not  by  what  particular  conformation  of 
the  organ  it  happens,  but  I  have  always  found  that 
this  composition  is  surprisingly  gratifying  to  the 
palate  of  a  young  chimney-sweeper — whether  the 
oily  particles  (sassafras  is  slightly  oleaginous)  do  at- 
tenuate and  soften  the  fuliginous  concretions,  which 
are  sometimes  found  (in  dissections)  to  adhere  to 
the  roof  of  the  mouth  in  these  unfledged  practi- 
tioners; or  whether  Nature,  sensible  that  she  had 
mingled  too  much  of  bitter  wood  in  the  lot  of  these 
raw  victims,  caused  to  grow  out  of  the  earth  her 
sassafras  for  a  sweet  lenitive — but  so  it  is,  that  no 
possible  taste  or  odour  to  the  senses  of  a  young 
chimney-sweeper  can  convey  a  delicate  excitement 
comparable  to  this  mixture.  Being  penniless,  they 
will  yet  hang  their  black  heads  over  the  ascending 
steam,  to  gratify  one  sense  if  possible,  seemingly  no 
less  pleased  than  those  domestic  animals — cats — 
when  they  purr  over  a  new-found  sprig  of  valerian. 
There  is  something  more  in  these  sympathies  than 
philosophy  can  inculcate. 

Now  albeit  Mr.  Read  boasteth,  not  without  rea- 
son, that  his  is  the  only  Salopian  house;  yet  be  it 
214 


THE  PRAISE  OF  CHIMNEY-SWEEPERS 

known  to  thee,  reader — if  thou  art  one  who  keepest 
what  are  called  good  hours,  thou  art  haply  ignorant 
of  the  fact — he  hath  a  race  of  industrious  imitators, 
who  from  stalls,  and  under  open  sky,  dispense  the 
same  savoury  mess  to  humbler  customers,  at  that 
dead  time  of  the  dawn,  when  (as  extremes  meet) 
the  rake,  reeling  home  from  his  midnight  cups,  and 
the  hard-handed  artizan  leaving  his  bed  to  resume 
the  premature  labours  of  the  day,  jostle,  not  unfre- 
quently  to  the  manifest  disconcerting  of  the  former, 
for  the  honours  of  the  pavement.  It  is  the  time 
when,  in  summer,  between  the  expired  and  the  not 
yet  relumined  kitchen -fires,  the  kennels  of  our  fair 
metropolis  give  forth  their  least  satisfactory  odours. 
The  rake,  who  wisheth  to  dissipate  his  o'ernight 
vapours  in  more  grateful  coffee,  curses  the  ungenial 
fume,  as  he  passeth ;  but  the  artizan  stops  to  taste, 
and  blesses  the  fragrant  breakfast. 

This  is  Saloop — the  precocious  herb- woman's 
darling — the  delight  of  the  early  gardener,  who 
transports  his  smoking  cabbages  by  break  of  day 
from  Hammersmith  to  Covent  Garden's  famed  pi- 
azzas— the  delight,  and  oh!  I  fear,  too  often  the 
envy,  of  the  unpennied  sweep.  Him  shouldst  thou 
haply  encounter,  with  his  dim  visage  pendent  over 
the  grateful  steam,  regale  him  with  a  sumptuous 
basin  (it  will  cost  thee  but  three-halfpennies)  and  a 
shce  of  delicate  bread  and  butter  (an  added  lialf- 
penny) — so  may  thy  culinary  fires,  eased  of  the 
o'ercharged  secretions  from  thy  worse-placed  hos- 

215 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

pitalities,  curl  up  a  lighter  volume  to  the  welkin  — 
so  may  the  descending  soot  never  taint  thy  costly 
well-ingredienced  soups — nor  the  odious  cry,  quick- 
reaching  from  street  to  street,  of  the  Jired  chimney, 
invite  the  rattling  engines  from  ten  adjacent  par- 
ishes, to  disturb  for  a  casual  scintillation  thy  peace 
and  pocket! 

I  am  by  nature  extremely  susceptible  of  street 
affronts;  the  jeers  and  taunts  of  the  populace;  the 
low-bred  triumph  they  display  over  the  casual  trip, 
or  splashed  stocking,  of  a  gentleman.  Yet  can  I  en- 
dure the  jocularity  of  a  young  sweep  with  some- 
thing more  than  forgiveness.  —  In  the  last  winter 
but  one,  pacing  along  Cheapside  with  my  accus- 
tomed precipitation  when  I  walk  westward,  a  treach- 
erous slide  brought  me  upon  my  back  in  an  instant. 
I  scrambled  up  with  pain  and  shame  enough — yet 
outwardly  trying  to  face  it  down,  as  if  nothing  had 
happened — when  the  roguish  grin  of  one  of  these 
young  wits  encountered  me.  There  he  stood,  point- 
ing me  out  with  his  dusky  finger  to  the  mob,  and 
to  a  poor  woman  (I  suppose  his  mother)  in  particu- 
lar, till  the  tears  for  the  exquisiteness  of  the  fun  (so 
he  thought  it)  worked  themselves  out  at  the  corners 
of  his  poor  red  eyes,  red  from  many  a  previous  weep- 
ing, and  soot-inflamed,  yet  twinkling  through  all 
with  such  a  joy,  snatched  out  of  desolation,  that 

Hogarth but  Hogarth  has  got  him  already  (how 

could  he  miss  him  ? )  in  the  March  to  Finchley,  grin- 
ning at  the  pieman — there  he  stood,  as  he  stands  in 
216 


THE  PRAISE  OF  CHIMNEY-SWEEPERS 

the  picture,  irremovable,  as  if  the  jest  was  to  last 
for  ever — with  such  a  maximum  of  glee,  and  mini- 
mum of  mischief,  in  his  mirth — for  the  grin  of  a 
genuine  sweep  hath  absolutely  no  malice  in  it — that 
I  could  have  been  content,  if  the  honour  of  a  gen- 
tleman might  endure  it,  to  have  remained  his  butt 
and  his  mockery  till  midnight. 

I  am  by  theory  obdurate  to  the  seductiveness  of 
what  are  called  a  fine  set  of  teeth.  Every  pair  of  rosy 
lips  (the  ladies  must  pardon  me)  is  a  casket  pre- 
sumably holding  such  jewels;  but,  methinks,  they 
should  take  leave  to  "air"  them  as  frugally  as  pos- 
sible. The  fine  lady,  or  fine  gentleman,  who  show 
me  their  teeth,  show  me  bones.  Yet  must  I  confess, 
that  from  the  mouth  of  a  true  sweep  a  display  (even 
to  ostentation)  of  those  white  and  shining  ossifica- 
tions, strikes  me  as  an  agreeable  anomaly  in  man- 
ners, and  an  allowable  piece  of  foppery.  It  is,  as  when 

A  sable  cloud 
Turns  forth  her  silver  lining  on  the  night. 

It  is  like  some  remnant  of  gentry  not  quite  extinct ; 
a  badge  of  better  days;  a  hint  of  nobility: — and, 
doubtless,  under  the  obscuring  darkness  and  double 
night  of  their  forlorn  disguisement,  oftentimes  lurk- 
eth  good  blood,  and  gentle  conditions,  derived  from 
lost  ancestry,  and  a  lapsed  pedigree.  The  premature 
apprenticements  of  these  tender  victims  give  but 
too  much  encouragement,  I  fear,  to  clandestine  and 
almost  infantile  abductions ;  the  seeds  of  civility  and 

217 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

true  courtesy,  so  often  discernible  in  these  young 
grafts  (not  otherwise  to  be  accounted  for)  plainly 
hint  at  some  forced  adoptions ;  many  noble  Rachels 
mourning  for  their  children,  even  in  our  days,  coun- 
tenance the  fact;  the  tales  of  fairy  spiriting  may 
shadow  a  lamentable  verity,  and  the  recovery  of  the 
young  Montagu  be  but  a  solitary  instance  of  good 
fortune  out  of  many  irreparable  and  hopeless  defili- 
ations. 

In  one  of  the  state-beds  at  Arundel  Castle,  a  few 
years  since — under  a  ducal  canopy — (that  seat  of 
the  Howards  is  an  object  of  curiosity  to  visitors, 
chiefly  for  its  beds,  in  which  the  late  duke  was  es- 
pecially a  connoisseur) — encircled  with  curtains  of 
delicatest  crimson,  with  starry  coronets  inwoven — 
folded  between  a  pair  of  sheets  whiter  and  softer 
than  the  lap  where  Venus  lulled  Ascanius — was 
discovered  by  chance,  after  all  methods  of  search 
had  failed,  at  noonday,  fast  asleep,  a  lost  chimney- 
sweeper. The  little  creature,  having  somehow  con- 
founded his  passage  among  the  intricacies  of  those 
lordly  chimneys,  by  some  unknown  aperture  had 
alighted  upon  this  magnificent  chamber ;  and,  tired 
with  his  tedious  explorations,  was  unable  to  resist 
the  delicious  invitement  to  repose,  which  he  there 
saw  exhibited ;  so  creeping  between  the  sheets  very 
quietly,  laid  his  black  head  upon  the  pillow,  and 
slept  like  a  young  Howard. 

Such  is  the  account  given  to  the  visitors  at  the 
Castle. — But  I  cannot  help  seeming  to  perceive  a 
218 


THE  PRAISE  OF  CHIMNEY-SWEEPERS 

confirmation  of  what  I  had  just  hinted  at  in  this 
story.  A  high  instinct  was  at  work  in  the  case,  or  I 
am  mistaken.  Is  it  probable  that  a  poor  child  of 
that  description,  with  whatever  weariness  he  might 
be  visited,  would  have  ventured,  under  such  a  pen- 
alty as  he  would  be  taught  to  expect,  to  uncover 
the  sheets  of  a  Duke's  bed,  and  deliberately  to  lay 
himself  down  between  them,  when  the  rug,  or  the 
carpet,  presented  an  obvious  couch,  still  far  above 
his  pretensions — is  this  probable,  L  would  ask,  if  the 
great  power  of  nature,  which  I  contend  for,  had  not 
been  manifested  within  him,  prompting  to  the  ad- 
venture ?  Doubtless  this  young  nobleman  (for  such 
my  mind  misgives  me  that  he  must  be)  was  allured 
by  some  memory,  not  amounting  to  full  conscious- 
ness, of  his  condition  in  infancy,  when  he  was  used 
to  be  lapped  by  his  mother,  or  his  nurse,  in  just 
such  sheets  as  he  there  found,  into  which  he  was 
now  but  creeping  back  as  into  his  proper  incunabula, 
and  resting-place.  —  By  no  other  theory  than  by  this 
sentiment  of  a  pre-existent  state  (as  I  may  call  it), 
can  I  explain  a  deed  so  venturous,  and,  indeed,  upon 
any  other  system,  so  indecorous,  in  this  tender,  but 
unseasonable,  sleeper. 

My  pleasant  friend  Jem  White  was  so  impressed 
with  a  belief  of  metamorphoses  like  this  frequently 
taking  place,  that  in  some  sort  to  reverse  the  wrongs 
of  fortune  in  these  poor  changelings,  he  instituted 
an  annual  feast  of  chimney-sweepers,  at  which  it 
was  his  pleasure  to  officiate  as  host  and  waiter.  It 

219 


THE   ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

was  a  solemn  supper  held  in  Smithfield,  upon  the 
yearly  return  of  the  fair  of  St.  Bartholomew.  Cards 
were  issued  a  week  before  to  the  master-sweeps  in 
and  about  the  metropolis,  confining  the  invitation 
to  their  younger  fry.  Now  and  then  an  elderly  strip- 
ling would  get  in  among  us,  and  be  good-naturedly 
winked  at;  but  our  main  body  were  infantry.  One 
unfortunate  wight,  indeed,  who,  relying  upon  his 
dusky  suit,  had  intruded  himself  into  our  party,  but 
by  tokens  was  providentially  discovered  in  time  to 
be  no  chimney-sweeper,  (all  is  not  soot  which  looks 
so,)  was  quoited  out  of  the  presence  with  universal 
indignation,  as  not  having  on  the  wedding  garment; 
but  in  general  the  greatest  harmony  prevailed.  The 
place  chosen  was  a  convenient  spot  among  the  pens, 
at  the  north  side  of  the  fair,  not  so  far  distant  as 
to  be  impervious  to  the  agreeable  hubbub  of  that 
vanity,  but  remote  enough  not  to  be  obvious  to 
the  interruption  of  every  gaping  spectator  in  it. 
The  guests  assembled  about  seven.  In  those  little 
temporary  parlours  three  tables  were  spread  with 
napery,  not  so  fine  as  substantial,  and  at  every 
board  a  comely  hostess  presided  with  her  pan  of 
hissing  sausages.  The  nostrils  of  the  young  rogues 
dilated  at  the  savour.  James  White,  as  head  waiter, 
had  charge  of  the  first  table ;  and  myself,  with  our 
trusty  companion  Bigod,  ordinarily  ministered  to 
the  other  two.  There  was  clambering  and  jostling, 
you  may  be  sure,  who  should  get  at  the  first  table, 
for  Rochester  in  his  maddest  days  could  not  have 
220 


THE  PRAISE  OF  CHIMNEY-SWEEPERS 

done  the  humours  of  the  scene  with  more  spirit  than 
my  friend.  After  some  general  expression  of  thanks 
for  the  honour  the  company  had  done  him,  his  inau- 
gural ceremony  was  to  clasp  the  greasy  waist  of  old 
dame  Ursula  (the  fattest  of  the  three),  that  stood 
frying  and  fretting,  half- blessing,  half-cursing  "the 
gentleman,"  and  imprint  upon  her  chaste  lips  a 
tender  salute,  w^hereat  the  universal  host  would  set 
up  a  shout  that  tore  the  concave,  while  hundreds  of 
grinning  teeth  startled  the  night  with  theu*  bright- 
ness. O  it  was  a  pleasure  to  see  the  sable  younkers 
lick  in  the  unctuous  meat,  with  his  more  unctuous 
sayings — how  he  would  fit  the  tit-bits  to  the  puny 
mouths,  reserving  the  lengthier  links  for  the  seniors 
— how  he  would  intercept  a  morsel  even  in  the  jaws 
of  some  young  desperado,  declaring  it  "must  to  the 
pan  again  to  be  browned,  for  it  was  not  fit  for  a  gen- 
tleman's eating" — how  he  would  recommend  this 
slice  of  w^hite  bread,  or  that  piece  of  kissing-crust, 
to  a  tender  juvenile,  advising  them  all  to  have  a  care 
of  cracking  their  teeth,  which  were  their  best  pat- 
rimony,— how  genteelly  he  would  deal  about  the 
small  ale,  as  if  it  were  wine,  naming  the  brewer,  and 
protesting,  if  it  were  not  good,  he  should  lose  their 
custom ;  with  a  special  recommendation  to  wipe  the 
lip  before  drinking.  Then  we  had  our  toasts — "the 
King," — "the  Cloth," — which,  whether  they  under- 
stood or  not,  was  equally  diverting  and  flattering; 
and  for  a  crowning  sentiment,  which  never  failed, 
"May  the  Brush  supersede  the  Laurel!"  All  these, 

2S1 


THE  ESSAYS  OF  ELIA 

and  fifty  other  fancies,  which  were  rather  felt  than 
comprehended  by  his  guests,  would  he  utter,  stand- 
ing upon  tables,  and  prefacing  every  sentiment  with 
a  •*  Gentlemen,  give  me  leave  to  propose  so  and  so," 
which  was  a  prodigious  comfort  to  those  young  or- 
phans; every  now  and  then  stuffing  into  his  mouth 
(for  it  did  not  do  to  be  squeamish  on  these  occa- 
sions) indiscriminate  pieces  of  those  reeking  sau- 
sages, which  pleased  them  mightily,  and  was  the  sa- 
vouriest  part,  you  may  believe,  of  the  entertainment. 

Golden  lads  and  lasses  must, 

As  chimney-sweepers,  come  to  dust — 

James  White  is  extinct,  and  with  him  these  sup- 
pers have  long  ceased.  He  carried  away  with  him 
half  the  fun  of  the  world  when  he  died — of  my 
world  at  least.  His  old  clients  look  for  him  among 
the  pens;  and,  missing  him,  reproach  the  altered 
feast  of  St.  Bartholomew,  and  the  glory  of  Smith- 
field  departed  for  ever. 


3^ 


A  COMPLAINT  OF  THE  DECAY 

OF  BEGGARS  IN  THE 

METROPOLIS 

THE  all-sweeping  besom  of  societarian  refor- 
mation— your  only  modern  Alcides'  club  to 
rid  the  time  of  its  abuses  —  is  uplift  with  many- 
handed  sway  to  extirpate  the  last  fluttering  tatters 
of  the  bugbear  Mendicity  from  the  metropolis. 
Scrips,  wallets,  bags — staves,  dogs,  and  crutches — 
the  whole  mendicant  fraternity,  with  all  their  bag- 
gage, are  fast  posting  out  of  the  purlieus  of  this 
eleventh  persecution.  From  the  crowded  crossing, 
from  the  corners  of  streets  and  turnings  of  alleys, 
the  parting  Genius  of  Beggary  is  "with  sighing 
sent." 

I  do  not  approve  of  this  wholesale  going  to  work, 
this  impertinent  crusado,  or  belliim  ad  extermina- 
tionem,  proclaimed  against  a  species.  Much  good 
might  be  sucked  from  these  Beggars. 

They  were  the  oldest  and  the  honourablest  form 
of  pauperism.  Their  appeals  were  to  our  common 
nature;  less  revolting  to  an  ingenuous  mind  than 
to  be  a  suppliant  to  the  particular  humours  or  ca- 
price of  any  fellow-creature,  or  set  of  fellow-crea- 
tures, parochial  or  societarian.  Theirs  were  the  only 
rates  uninvidious  in  the  levy,  ungrudged  in  the 

assessment. 

9S» 


THE   ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

There  was  a  dignity  springing  from  the  very  depth 
of  their  desolation ;  as  to  be  naked  is  to  be  so  much 
nearer  to  the  being  a  man,  than  to  go  in  hvery. 

The  greatest  spirits  have  felt  this  in  their  reverses; 
and  when  Dionysius  from  king  turned  schoolmaster, 
do  we  feel  anything  towards  him  but  contempt? 
Could  Vandyke  have  made  a  picture  of  him,  sway- 
ing a  ferula  for  a  sceptre,  which  would  have  affected 
our  minds  with  the  same  heroic  pity,  the  same  com- 
passionate admiration,  with  which  we  regard  his 
Belisarius  begging  for  an  obolus  ?  Would  the  moral 
have  been  more  graceful,  more  pathetic  ? 

The  Blind  Beggar  in  the  legend — the  father  of 
pretty  Bessy — whose  story  doggrel  rhymes  and  ale- 
house signs  cannot  so  degrade  or  attenuate  but  that 
some  sparks  of  a  lustrous  spirit  will  shine  through 
the  disguisements — this  noble  Earl  of  Cornwall  (as 
indeed  he  was)  and  memorable  sport  of  fortune,  flee- 
ing from  the  unjust  sentence  of  his  liege  lord,  stript 
of  all,  and  seated  on  the  flowering  green  of  Bethnal, 
with  his  more  fresh  and  springing  daughter  by  his 
side,  illumining  his  rags  and  his  beggary — would 
the  child  and  parent  have  cut  a  better  figure  doing 
the  honours  of  a  counter,  or  expiating  their  fallen 
condition  upon  the  three-foot  eminence  of  some 
sempstering  shop-board  ? 

In  tale  or  history  your  Beggar  is  ever  the  just 

antipode  to  your  King.   The  poets  and  romanci- 

cal  writers  (as  dear  Margaret  Newcastle  would  call 

them),  when  they  would  most  shaiply  and  feehngly 

224 


THE   DECAY   OF   BEGGARS 

paint  a  reverse  of  fortune,  never  stop  till  they  have 
brought  down  their  hero  in  good  earnest  to  rags 
and  the  wallet.  The  depth  of  the  descent  illustrates 
the  height  he  falls  from.  There  is  no  medium  which 
can  be  presented  to  the  imagination  without  offence. 
There  is  no  breaking  the  fall.  Lear,  thrown  from 
his  palace,  must  divest  him  of  his  garments,  till  he 
answer  "mere  nature";  and  Cresseid,  fallen  from  a 
prince's  love,  must  extend  her  pale  arms,  pale  with 
other  whiteness  than  of  beauty,  supplicating  lazar 
alms  with  bell  and  clap-dish. 

The  Lucian  wits  knew  this  very  well ;  and,  with 
a  converse  policy,  when  they  would  express  scorn 
of  greatness  without  the  pity,  they  show  us  an  Alex- 
ander in  the  shades  cobbling  shoes,  or  a  Semiramis 
getting  up  foul  linen. 

How  would  it  sound  in  song,  that  a  great  mon- 
arch had  declined  his  affections  upon  the  daughter 
of  a  baker!  yet  do  we  feel  the  imagination  at  all 
violated  when  we  read  the  "true  ballad,"  where 
King  Cophetua  woos  the  beggar  maid  ? 

Pauperism,  pauper,  poor  man,  are  expressions  of 
pity,  but  pity  alloyed  with  contempt.  No  one  prop- 
erly contemns  a  Beggar.  Poverty  is  a  comparative 
thing,  and  each  degree  of  it  is  mocked  by  its  "neigh- 
bour grice."  Its  poor  rents  and  comings-in  are  soon 
summed  up  and  told.  Its  pretences  to  property  are 
almost  ludicrous.  Its  pitiful  attempts  to  save  excite 
a  smile.  Every  scornful  companion  can  weigh  his 
trifle-bigger  purse  against  it.  Poor  man  reproaches 

225 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

poor  man  in  the  streets  with  impohtic  mention  of 
his  condition,  his  own  being  a  shade  better,  while 
the  rich  pass  by  and  jeer  at  both.  No  rascally  com- 
parative insults  a  Beggar,  or  thinks  of  weighing 
purses  with  him.  He  is  not  in  the  scale  of  compari- 
son. He  is  not  under  the  measure  of  property.  He 
confessedly  hath  none,  any  more  than  a  dog  or  a 
sheep.  No  one  twitteth  him  with  ostentation  above 
his  means.  No  one  accuses  him  of  pride,  or  up- 
braideth  him  with  mock  humility.  None  jostle  with 
him  for  the  wall,  or  pick  quarrels  for  precedency. 
No  wealthy  neighbour  seeketh  to  eject  him  from 
his  tenement.  No  man  sues  him.  No  man  goes  to  law 
with  him.  If  I  were  not  the  independent  gentleman 
that  I  am,  rather  than  I  would  be  a  retainer  to  the 
great,  a  led  captain,  or  a  poor  relation,  I  would 
choose,  out  of  the  delicacy  and  true  greatness  of  my 
mind,  to  be  a  Beggar. 

Rags,  which  are  the  reproach  of  poverty,  are  the 
Beggar's  robes,  and  graceful  insignia  of  his  profes- 
sion, his  tenure,  his  full  dress,  the  suit  in  which  he 
is  expected  to  show  himself  in  public.  He  is  never 
out  of  the  fashion,  or  limpeth  awkwardly  behind  it. 
He  is  not  required  to  put  on  court  mourning.  He 
weareth  all  colours,  fearing  none.  His  costume  hath 
undergone  less  change  than  the  Quaker's.  He  is  the 
only  man  in  the  universe  who  is  not  obliged  to  study 
appearances.  The  ups  and  downs  of  the  world  con- 
cern him  no  longer.  He  alone  continueth  in  one  stay. 
The  price  of  stock  or  land  afFecteth  him  not.  The 
2^ 


THE   DECAY   OF   BEGGARS 

fluctuations  of  agricultural  or  commercial  prosper- 
ity touch  him  not,  or  at  worst  but  change  his  cus- 
tomers. He  is  not  expected  to  become  bail  or  surety 
for  any  one.  No  man  troubleth  him  with  question- 
ing his  religion  or  politics.  He  is  the  only  free  man 
in  the  universe. 

The  Mendicants  of  this  great  city  were  so  many 
of  her  sights,  her  lions.  I  can  no  more  spare  them 
than  I  could  the  Cries  of  London.  No  corner  of  a 
street  is  complete  without  them.  They  are  as  indis- 
pensable as  the  Ballad  Singer ;  and  in  their  pictu- 
resque attire  as  ornamental  as  the  Signs  of  old 
London.  They  were  the  standing  morals,  emblems, 
mementoes,  dial-mottoes,  the  spital  sermons,  the 
books  for  children,  the  salutary  checks  and  pauses 
to  the  high  and  rushing  tide  of  greasy  citizenry — 

— Look 
Upon  that  poor  and  broken  bankrupt  there. 

Above  all,  those  old  blind  Tobits  that  used  to  line 
the  wall  of  Lincoln's-inn  Garden,  before  modern 
fastidiousness  had  expelled  them,  casting  up  their 
ruined  orbs  to  catch  a  ray  of  pity,  and  (if  possible) 
of  light,  with  their  faithful  Dog  Guide  at  their  feet, 
— whither  are  they  fled?  or  into  what  corners,  blind 
as  themselves,  have  they  been  driven,  out  of  the 
wholesome  air  and  sun-warmth  ?  immersed  between 
four  walls,  in  what  withering  poor-house  do  they 
endure  the  penalty  of  double  darkness,  where  the 
chink  of  the  dropt  halfpenny  no  more  consoles  their 

227 


THE   ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

forlorn  bereavement,  far  from  the  sound  of  the 
cheerful  and  hope-stirring  tread  of  the  passenger? 
Where  hang  their  useless  staves  ?  and  who  will  farm 
their  dogs? — Have  the  overseers  of  St.  L —  caused 
them  to  be  shot  ?  or  were  they  tied  up  in  sacks  and 
dropt  into  the  Thames,  at  the  suggestion  of  B — 

the  mild  rector  of ? 

Well  fare  the  soul  of  unfastidious  Vincent  Bourne, 
— most  classical,  and,  at  the  same  time,  most  Eng- 
lish of  the  Latinists! — who  has  treated  of  this  hu- 
man and  quadrupedal  alliance,  this  dog  and  man 
friendship,  in  the  sweetest  of  his  poems,  the  Epi- 
taphium  in  Canem,  or.  Dog's  Epitaph.  Reader,  pe- 
ruse it;  and  say,  if  customary  sights,  which  could 
call  up  such  gentle  poetry  as  this,  were  of  a  nature 
to  do  more  harm  or  good  to  the  moral  sense  of  the 
passengers  through  the  daily  thoroughfares  of  a  vast 
and  busy  metropolis. 

PAUPERIS  hie  Iri  requiesco  Lyciscus,  herilis, 
Dum  vixi,  tutela  vigil  columenque  senectae. 
Dux  caeco  fidus:  nec^  me  ducente,  solebat, 
Praetenso  hinc  atque  hinc  baculo^  per  iniqua  locorum 
Incertam  explorare  viam;  sed  fila  secutus, 
Quae  dubios  regerent  passus,  vestigia  tuta 
Fixit  inoffenso  gressu ;  gelidumque  sedile 
In  nudo  nactus  saxo,  qua  praetereuntium 
Unda  frequens  confluxit,  ibi  miserisque  tenebras 
Lamentis,  noctemque  oculis  ploravit  obortam. 
Ploravit  nee  frustra;  obolum  dedit  alter  et  alter, 
Quels  eorda  et  mentem  indiderat  natura  benignam. 
Ad  latus  interea  jacui  sopitus  herile, 
Vel  mediis  vigil  in  somuis;  ad  herilia  jussa 
228 


THE   DECAY   OF   BEGGARS 

Auresque  atque  aniraum  arrectus,  seu  frustuk  amioe 
Porrexit  sociasque  dapes,  seu  longa  diei 
Tsedia  perpessus,  reditum  sub  nocte  parabat. 

Hi  mores,  haee  vita  fuit,  dum  fata  sinebant, 
Dum  neque  languebam  morbis,  nee  inerte  senectA 
Quae  tandem  obrepsit,  veterique  satellite  caecum 
Orbavit  dominum ;  prisci  sed  gratia  facti 
Ne  tota  intereat,  longos  deleta  per  annos, 
Exiguum  hunc  Irus  tumulum  de  cespite  fecit, 
Etsi  inopis,  non  ingratae,  munuscula  dextrae; 
Carmine  signavitque  brevi,  dominumque  canemque. 
Quod  memoret,  fidumque  canem  dominumque  benignuin. 

POOR  Irus'  faithful  wolf-dog  here  I  lie. 
That  wont  to  tend  my  old  blind  master's  steps. 
His  guide  and  guard;  nor,  while  my  service  lasted. 
Had  he  occasion  for  that  staff,  with  which 
He  now  goes  picking  out  his  path  in  fear 
Over  the  highways  and  crossings;  but  would  plant. 
Safe  in  the  conduct  of  my  friendly  string, 
A  firm  foot  forward  still,  till  he  had  reach'd 
His  poor  seat  on  some  stone,  nigh  where  the  tide 
Of  passers-by  in  thickest  confluence  flow'd : 
To  whom  with  loud  and  passionate  laments 
From  morn  to  eve  his  dark  estate  he  wail'd. 
Nor  wail'd  to  all  in  vain:  some  here  and  there. 
The  well-disposed  and  good,  their  pennies  gave. 
I  meantime  at  his  feet  obsequious  slept; 
Not  all-asleep  in  sleep,  but  heart  and  ear 
Prick' d  up  at  his  least  motion;  to  receive 
At  his  kind  hand  my  customary  crumbs. 
And  common  portion  in  his  feast  of  scraps; 
Or  when  night  warn'd  us  homeward,  tired  and  spent 
With  our  long  day  and  tedious  beggary. 

These  were  my  manners,  this  my  way  of  life 
Till  age  and  slow  disease  me  overtook, 

229 


THE  ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

And  sever'd  from  my  sightless  master's  side. 
But  lest  the  grace  of  so  good  deeds  should  die, 
Through  tract  of  years  in  mute  oblivion  lost. 
This  slender  tomb  of  turf  hath  Irus  reared. 
Cheap  monument  of  no  ungrudging  hand. 
And  with  short  verse  inscribed  it,  to  attest. 
In  long  and  lasting  union  to  attest, 
The  virtues  of  the  Beggar  and  his  Dog. 

These  dim  eyes  have  in  vain  explored  for  some 
months  past  a  well-known  figure,  or  part  of  the 
figure,  of  a  man,  who  used  to  glide  his  comely  upper 
half  over  the  pavements  of  London,  wheeling  along 
with  most  ingenious  celerity  upon  a  machine  of 
wood;  a  spectacle  to  natives,  to  foreigners,  and  to 
children.  He  was  of  a  robust  make,  with  a  florid 
sailor-like  complexion,  and  his  head  was  bare  to  the 
storm  and  sunshine.  He  was  a  natural  curiosity,  a 
speculation  to  the  scientific,  a  prodigy  to  the  simple. 
The  infant  would  stare  at  the  mighty  man  brought 
down  to  his  own  level.  The  common  cripple  would 
despise  his  own  pusillanimity,  viewing  the  hale  stout- 
ness, and  hearty  heart,  of  this  half-limbed  giant.  Few 
but  must  have  noticed  him ;  for  the  accident  which 
brought  him  low  took  place  during  the  riots  of 
1780,  and  he  has  been  a  groundling  so  long.  He 
seemed  earth-born,  an  Antaeus,  and  to  suck  in  fresh 
vigour  from  the  soil  which  he  neighboured.  He  was 
a  grand  fragment ;  as  good  as  an  Elgin  marble.  The 
nature,  which  should  have  recruited  his  reft  legs 
and  thighs,  was  not  lost,  but  only  retired  into  his 
upper  parts,  and  he  was  half  a  Hercules.  I  heard  a 
230 


THE   DECAY  OF   BEGGARS 

tremendous  voice  thundering  and  growling,  as  be- 
fore an  earthquake,  and  casting  down  my  eyes,  it 
was  this  mandrake  revihng  a  steed  that  had  started 
at  his  portentous  appearance.  He  seemed  to  want 
but  his  just  stature  to  have  rent  the  offending  quad- 
ruped in  shivers.  He  was  as  the  man-part  of  a  Cen- 
taur, from  which  the  horse-half  had  been  cloven  in 
some  dire  Lapithan  controversy.  He  moved  on,  as 
if  he  could  have  made  shift  with  yet  half  of  the 
body-portion  which  was  left  him.  The  os  sublime 
was  not  wanting ;  and  he  threw  out  yet  a  jolly  coun- 
tenance upon  the  heavens.  Forty-and-two  years  had 
he  driven  this  out-of-door  trade,  and  now  that  his 
hair  is  grizzled  in  the  service,  but  his  good  spirits 
no  way  impaired,  because  he  is  not  content  to  ex- 
change his  free  air  and  exercise  for  the  restraints  of 
a  poor-house,  he  is  expiating  his  contumacy  in  one 
of  those  houses  (ironically  christened)  of  Correction. 
Was  a  daily  spectacle  like  this  to  be  deemed  a 
nuisance,  which  called  for  legal  interference  to  re- 
move ?  or  not  rather  a  salutary  and  a  touching  ob- 
ject to  the  passers-by  in  a  great  city?  Among  her 
shows,  her  museums,  and  supplies  for  ever-gaping 
curiosity  (and  what  else  but  an  accumulation  of 
sights — endless  sights — is  a  great  city;  or  for  what 
else  is  it  desirable?)  was  there  not  room  for  one  Lusus 
(not  Naturce,  indeed,  but)  Accidentiuin?  What  if 
in  forty-and-two-years'  going  about,  the  man  had 
scraped  together  enough  to  give  a  portion  to  his 
child  (as  the  rumour  ran)  of  a  few  hundreds — whom 

231 


THE  ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

had  he  injured? — whom  had  he  imposed  upon?  The 
contributors  had  enjoyed  their  sight  for  their  pen- 
nies. What  if  after  being  exposed  all  day  to  the 
heats,  the  rains,  and  the  frosts  of  heaven — shuffling 
his  ungainly  trunk  along  in  an  elaborate  and  pain- 
ful motion — he  was  enabled  to  retire  at  night  to 
enjoy  himself  at  a  club  of  his  fellow  cripples  over  a 
dish  of  hot  meat  and  vegetables,  as  the  charge  was 
gravely  brought  against  him  by  a  clergyman  depos- 
ing before  a  House  of  Commons'  Committee — was 
this^  or  was  his  truly  paternal  consideration,  which 
(if  a  fact)  deserved  a  statue  rather  than  a  whipping- 
post, and  is  inconsistent,  at  least,  with  the  exagger- 
ation of  nocturnal  orgies  which  he  has  been  slan- 
dered with — a  reason  that  he  should  be  deprived  of 
his  chosen,  harmless,  nay,  edifying  way  of  life,  and  be 
committed  in  hoary  age  for  a  sturdy  vagabond  ? — 

There  was  a  Yorick  once,  whom  it  would  not  have 
shamed  to  have  sate  down  at  the  cripples'  feast,  and 
to  have  thrown  in  his  benediction,  ay,  and  his  mite 
too,  for  a  companionable  symbol.  "Age,  thou  hast 
lost  thy  breed." — 

Half  of  these  stories  about  the  prodigious  for- 
tunes made  by  begging  are  (I  verily  believe)  misers' 
calumnies.  One  was  much  talked  of  in  the  pubhc 
papers  some  time  since,  and  the  usual  charitable 
inferences  deduced.  A  clerk  in  the  Bank  was  sur- 
prised with  the  announcement  of  a  five-hundred- 
pound  legacy  left  him  by  a  person  whose  name  he 
was  a  stranger  to.  It  seems  that  in  his  daily  morn- 


THE   DECAY   OF   BEGGARS 

ing  walks  from  Peckham  (or  some  village  there- 
abouts) where  he  lived,  to  his  office,  it  had  been  his 
practice  for  the  last  twenty  years  to  drop  his  half- 
penny duly  into  the  hat  of  some  blind  Bartimeus, 
that  sate  begging  alms  by  the  wayside  in  the  Bor- 
ough. The  good  old  beggar  recognised  his  daily  ben- 
efactor by  the  voice  only;  and,  when  he  died,  left 
all  the  amassings  of  his  alms  (that  had  been  half  a 
century  perhaps  in  the  accumulating)  to  his  old 
Bank  friend.  Was  this  a  story  to  purse  up  people's 
hearts,  and  pennies,  against  giving  an  alms  to  the 
blind? — or  not  rather  a  beautiful  moral  of  well- 
directed  charity  on  the  one  part,  and  noble  grati- 
tude upon  the  other? 

I  sometimes  wish  I  had  been  that  Bank  clerk. 

I  seem  to  remember  a  poor  old  grateful  kind  of 
creature,  blinking  and  looking  up  with  his  no  eyes 
in  the  sun — 

Is  it  possible  I  could  have  steeled  my  purse 
against  him  ? 

Perhaps  I  had  no  small  change. 

Reader,  do  not  be  frightened  at  the  hard  words 
imposition,  imposture — give,  and  ask  no  questions. 
Cast  thy  bread  upon  the  waters.  Some  have  una- 
wares (like  this  Bank  clerk)  entertained  angels. 

Shut  not  thy  purse-strings  always  against  painted 
distress.  Act  a  charity  sometimes.  When  a  poor 
creature  (outwardly  and  visibly  such)  comes  before 
thee,  do  not  stay  to  inquire  whether  the  "seven 
small  children,"  in  whose  name  he  implores  thy  as- 

2^ 


THE  ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

sistance,  have  a  veritable  existence.  Rake  not  into 
the  bowels  of  unwelcome  truth  to  save  a  halfpenny. 
It  is  good  to  believe  him.  If  he  be  not  all  that  he 
pretendeth,  give,  and  under  a  personate  father  of  a 
family,  think  (if  thou  pleasest)  that  thou  hast  re- 
lieved an  indigent  bachelor.  When  they  come  with 
their  counterfeit  looks  and  mumping  tones,  think 
them  players.  You  pay  your  money  to  see  a  come- 
dian feign  these  things,  which,  concerning  these 
poor  people,  thou  canst  not  certainly  tell  whether 
they  are  feigned  or  not. 


S84 


A   DISSERTATION    UPON   ROAST  PIG 

MANKIND,  says  a  Chinese  manuscript,  which 
my  friend  M.  was  obliging  enough  to  read 
and  explain  to  me,  for  the  first  seventy  thousand 
ages  ate  their  meat  raw,  clawing  or  biting  it  from 
the  living  animal,  just  as  they  do  in  Abyssinia  to 
this  day.  This  period  is  not  obscurely  hinted  at  by 
their  great  Confucius  in  the  second  chapter  of  his 
Mundane  INIutations,  where  he  designates  a  kind  of 
golden  age  by  the  term  Cho-fang,  literally  the  Cooks' 
Holiday.  The  manuscript  goes  on  to  say,  that  the 
art  of  roasting,  or  rather  broiling  (which  I  take  to 
be  the  elder  brother)  was  accidentally  discovered  in 
the  manner  following.  The  swine-herd,  Ho-ti,  hav- 
ing gone  out  into  the  woods  one  morning,  as  his 
manner  was,  to  collect  mast  for  his  hogs,  left  his 
cottage  in  the  care  of  his  eldest  son  Bo-bo,  a  great 
lubberly  boy,  who  being  fond  of  playing  with 
fire,  as  younkers  of  his  age  commonly  are,  let  some 
sparks  escape  into  a  bundle  of  straw,  which  kindling 
quickly,  spread  the  conflagration  over  every  part  of 
their  poor  mansion,  till  it  was  reduced  to  ashes.  To- 
gether with  the  cottage  (a  sorry  antediluvian  make- 
shift of  a  building,  you  may  think  it),  what  was  of 
much  more  importance,  a  fine  litter  of  new-farrowed 
pigs,  no  less  than  nine  in  number,  perished.  China 
pigs  have  been  esteemed  a  luxury  all  over  the  East, 
from  the  remotest  periods  that  we  read  of  Bo- bo 

235 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

was  in  the  utmost  consternation,  as  you  may  think, 
not  so  much  for  the  sake  of  the  tenement,  which  his 
father  and  he  could  easily  build  up  again  with  a  few 
dry  branches,  and  the  labour  of  an  hour  or  two, 
at  any  time,  as  for  the  loss  of  the  pigs.  While  he 
was  thinking  what  he  should  say  to  his  father,  and 
wringing  his  hands  over  the  smoking  remnants  of 
one  of  those  untimely  sufferers,  an  odour  assailed  his 
nostrils,  unlike  any  scent  which  he  had  before  ex- 
perienced. What  could  it  proceed  from? — not  from 
the  burnt  cottage — he  had  smelt  that  smell  before 
— indeed,  this  was  by  no  means  the  first  accident 
of  the  kind  which  had  occurred  through  the  negli- 
gence of  this  unlucky  young  firebrand.  Much  less 
did  it  resemble  that  of  any  known  herb,  weed,  or 
flower.  A  premonitory  moistening  at  the  same  time 
overflowed  his  nether  lip.  He  knew  not  what  to 
think.  He  next  stooped  down  to  feel  the  pig,  if 
there  were  any  signs  of  life  in  it.  He  burnt  his 
fingers,  and  to  cool  them  he  applied  them  in  his 
booby  fashion  to  his  mouth.  Some  of  the  crumbs  of 
the  scorched  skin  had  come  away  with  his  fingers, 
and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  (in  the  world's  life 
indeed,  for  before  him  no  man  had  known  it)  he 
tasted — crackling!  Again  he  felt  and  fumbled  at 
the  pig.  It  did  not  burn  him  so  much  now,  still  he 
licked  his  fingers  from  a  sort  of  habit.  The  truth  at 
length  broke  into  his  slow  understanding,  that  it  was 
the  pig  that  smelt  so,  and  the  pig  that  tasted  so  de- 
licious ;  and  surrendering  himself  up  to  the  new-born 
236 


A  DISSERTATION    UPON    ROAST   PIG 

pleasure,  he  fell  to  tearing  up  whole  handfuls  of  the 
scorched  skin  with  the  flesh  next  it,  and  was  cram- 
ming it  down  his  throat  in  his  beastly  fashion,  when 
his  sire  entered  amid  the  smoking  rafters,  armed 
with  retributory  cudgel,  and  finding  how  affairs 
stood,  began  to  rain  blows  upon  the  young  rogue's 
shoulders,  as  thick  as  hailstones,  which  Bo- bo  heeded 
not  any  more  than  if  they  had  been  flies.  The  tick- 
ling pleasure,  which  he  experienced  in  his  lower 
regions,  had  rendered  him  quite  callous  to  any  in- 
conveniences he  might  feel  in  those  remote  quar- 
ters. His  father  might  lay  on,  but  he  could  not  beat 
him  from  his  pig,  tiU  he  had  fairly  made  an  end  of 
it,  when,  becoming  a  little  more  sensible  of  his  situ- 
ation, something  like  the  following  dialogue  ensued. 

"You  graceless  whelp,  what  have  you  got  there 
devouring?  Is  it  not  enough  that  you  have  burnt 
me  down  three  houses  with  your  dog's  tricks,  and 
be  hanged  to  you!  but  you  must  be  eating  fire,  and 
I  know  not  what — what  have  you  got  there,  I  say  ?" 

"O  father,  the  pig,  the  pig!  do  come  and  taste 
how  nice  the  burnt  pig  eats." 

The  ears  of  Ho-ti  tingled  with  horror.  He  cursed 
his  son,  and  he  cursed  himself  that  ever  he  should 
beget  a  son  that  should  eat  burnt  pig. 

Bo-bo,  whose  scent  was  wonderfully  sharpened 
since  morning,  soon  raked  out  another  pig,  and 
fairly  rending  it  asunder,  thrust  the  lesser  lialf  by 
main  force  into  the  fists  of  Ho-ti,  still  shouting  out, 
"Eat,  eat,  eat  the  burnt  pig,  father,  only  taste— 

237 


THE   ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

O  Lord!" — with  such-like  barbarous  ejaculations, 
cramming  all  the  while  as  if  he  would  choke. 

Ho-ti  trembled  every  joint  while  he  grasped  the 
abominable  thing,  wavering  whether  he  should  not 
put  his  son  to  death  for  an  unnatural  young  mon- 
ster, when  the  crackling  scorching  his  fingers,  as  it 
had  done  his  son's,  and  applying  the  same  remedy 
to  them,  he  in  his  turn  tasted  some  of  its  flavour, 
which,  make  what  sour  mouths  he  would  for  a  pre- 
tence, proved  not  altogether  displeasing  to  him.  In 
conclusion  (for  the  manuscript  here  is  a  little  te- 
dious), both  father  and  son  fairly  set  down  to  the 
mess,  and  never  left  off  till  they  had  despatched  all 
that  remained  of  the  litter. 

Bo-bo  was  strictly  enjoined  not  to  let  the  secret 
escape,  for  the  neighbours  would  certainly  have 
stoned  them  for  a  couple  of  abominable  wretches, 
who  could  think  of  improving  upon  the  good  meat 
which  God  had  sent  them.  Nevertheless,  strange 
stories  got  about.  It  was  observed  that  Ho-ti's  cot- 
tage was  burnt  down  now  more  frequently  than 
ever.  Nothing  but  fires  from  this  time  forward.  Some 
would  break  out  in  broad  day,  others  in  the  night- 
time. As  often  as  the  sow  farrowed,  so  sure  was  the 
house  of  Ho-ti  to  be  in  a  blaze ;  and  Ho-ti  himself, 
which  was  the  more  remarkable,  instead  of  chastis- 
ing his  son,  seemed  to  grow  more  indulgent  to  him 
than  ever.  At  length  they  were  watched,  the  ter- 
rible mystery  discovered,  and  father  and  son  sum- 
moned to  take  their  trial  at  Pekin,  then  an  incon- 
238 


A  DISSERTATION    UPON    ROAST   PIG 

siderable  assize  town.  Evidence  was  given,  the  ob- 
noxious food  itself  produced  in  court,  and  verdict 
about  to  be  pronounced,  when  the  foreman  of  the 
jury  begged  that  some  of  the  burnt  pig,  of  which 
the  culprits  stood  accused,  might  be  handed  into  the 
box.  He  handled  it,  and  they  all  handled  it;  and 
burning  their  fingers,  as  Bo-bo  and  his  father  had 
done  before  them,  and  nature  prompting  to  each  of 
them  the  same  remedy,  against  the  face  of  all  the 
facts,  and  the  clearest  charge  which  judge  had  ever 
given, — to  the  surprise  of  the  whole  court,  towns- 
folk, strangers,  reporters,  and  all  present — without 
leaving  the  box,  or  any  manner  of  consultation 
whatever,  they  brought  in  a  simultaneous  verdict  of 
Not  Guilty. 

The  judge,  who  was  a  shrewd  fellow,  winked  at 
the  manifest  iniquity  of  the  decision :  and  when  the 
court  was  dismissed,  went  privily  and  bought  up  all 
the  pigs  that  could  be  had  for  love  or  money.  In  a 
few  days  his  Lordship's  town-house  was  observed  to 
be  on  fire.  The  thing  took  wing,  and  now  there  was 
nothing  to  be  seen  but  fires  in  every  direction.  Fuel 
and  pigs  grew  enormously  dear  all  over  the  district 
The  insurance-offices  one  and  all  shut  up  shop.  Peo- 
ple built  slighter  and  slighter  every  day,  until  ii  was 
feared  that  the  very  science  of  architecture  would  in 
no  long  time  be  lost  to  the  world.  Thus  this  custom 
of  firing  houses  continued,  till  in  process  of  time, 
says  my  manuscript,  a  sage  arose,  like  our  Locke, 
who  made  a  discovery  that  the  flesh  of  swine,  or  in- 

239 


THE  ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

deed  of  any  other  animal,  might  be  cooked  {burnt, 
as  they  called  it)  without  the  necessity  of  consum- 
ing a  whole  house  to  dress  it.  Then  first  began  the 
rude  form  of  a  gridiron.  Roasting  by  the  string  or 
spit  came  in  a  century  or  two  later,  I  forget  in  whose 
dynasty.  By  such  slow  degrees,  concludes  the  man- 
uscript, do  the  most  useful,  and  seemingly  the  most 
obvious,  arts  make  their  way  among  mankind 

Without  placing  too  implicit  faith  in  the  account 
above  given,  it  must  be  agreed  that  if  a  worthy 
pretext  for  so  dangerous  an  experiment  as  setting 
houses  on  fire  (especially  in  these  days)  could  be 
assigned  in  favour  of  any  culinary  object,  that  pre- 
text and  excuse  might  be  found  in  roast  pig. 

Of  all  the  delicacies  in  the  whole  mundus  edibilis, 
I  will  maintain  it  to  be  the  most  delicate — princeps 
obsomorum. 

I  speak  not  of  your  grown  porkers — things  be- 
tween pig  and  pork — those  hobbledehoys — but  a 
young  and  tender  suckling — under  a  moon  old — 
guiltless  as  yet  of  the  sty — with  no  original  speck 
of  the  amor  immunditice,  the  hereditary  failing  of 
the  first  parent,  yet  manifest — his  voice  as  yet  not 
broken,  but  something  between  a  childish  treble  and 
a  grumble — the  mild  forerunner  or  prceludium  of  a 
grunt. 

He  must  be  roasted.  I  am  not  ignorant  that  our 
ancestors  ate  them  seethed,  or  boiled — but  what  a 
sacrifice  of  the  exterior  tegument ! 

There  is  no  flavour  comparable,  I  will  contend, 
240 


^z-r-iJi^ 


<.-.-   L;,, 


A  DISSERTATION    UPON   ROAST   PIG 

to  that  of  the  crisp,  tawny,  well -watched,  not  over- 
roasted, crackling,  as  it  is  well  called — the  very- 
teeth  are  invited  to  their  share  of  the  pleasure  at 
this  banquet  in  overcoming  the  coy,  brittle  resis- 
tance— with  the  adhesive  oleaginous — O  call  it  not 
fat!  but  an  indefinable  sweetness  growing  up  to  it 
— the  tender  blossoming  of  fat — fat  cropped  in  the 
bud — taken  in  the  shoot — in  the  first  innocence — 
the  cream  and  quintessence  of  the  child-pig's  yet 
pure  food — the  lean,  no  lean,  but  a  kind  of  animal 
manna — or,  rather,  fat  and  lean  (if  it  must  be  so) 
so  blended  and  running  into  each  other,  that  both 
together  make  but  one  ambrosian  result  or  com- 
mon substance. 

Behold  him  while  he  is  doing — it  seemeth  rather 
a  refreshing  warmth,  than  a  scorching  heat,  that  he 
is  so  passive  to.  How  equably  he  twirleth  round  the 
string!  Now  he  is  just  done.  To  see  the  extreme 
sensibility  of  that  tender  age!  he  hath  wept  out 
his  pretty  eyes — radiant  jellies — shooting  stars. — 

See  him  in  the  dish,  his  second  cradle,  how  meek 
he  lieth! — wouldst  thou  have  had  this  innocent 
grow  up  to  the  grossness  and  indocility  which  too 
often  accompany  maturer  swinehood  ?  Ten  to  one  he 
would  have  proved  a  glutton,  a  sloven,  an  obstinate, 
disagreeable  animal — wallowing  in  all  manner  of 
filthy  conversation — from  these  sins  he  is  happily 
snatched  away — 

Ere  sin  could  blight  or  sorrow  fade. 
Death  came  with  timely  care — 

241 


THE  ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

his  memory  is  odoriferous — no  clown  curseth,  while 
his  stomach  half  rejecteth,  the  rank  bacon — no  coal- 
heaver  bolteth  him  in  reeking  sausages — he  hath  a 
fair  sepulchre  in  the  grateful  stomach  of  the  judi- 
cious epicure — and  for  such  a  tomb  might  be  con- 
tent to  die. 

He  is  the  best  of  Sapors.  Pine-apple  is  great.  She 
is  indeed  almost  too  transcendent — a  delight,  if  not 
sinful,  yet  so  like  to  sinning,  that  really  a  tender- 
conscienced  person  would  do  well  to  pause — too 
ravishing  for  mortal  taste,  she  woundeth  and  exco- 
riateth  the  lips  that  approach  her — like  lovers'  kisses, 
she  biteth — she  is  a  pleasure  bordering  on  pain  from 
the  fierceness  and  insanity  of  her  relish — but  she 
stoppeth  at  the  palate — she  meddleth  not  with  the 
appetite — and  the  coarsest  hunger  might  barter  her 
consistently  for  a  mutton-chop. 

Pig — let  me  speak  his  praise — is  no  less  provoc- 
ative of  the  appetite  than  he  is  satisfactory  to  the 
criticalness  of  the  censorious  palate.  The  strong  man 
may  batten  on  him,  and  the  weakling  refuseth  not 
his  mild  juices. 

Unlike  to  mankind's  mixed  characters,  a  bundle 
of  virtues  and  vices,  inexplicably  intertwisted,  and 
not  to  be  unravelled  without  hazard,  he  is — good 
throughout.  No  part  of  him  is  better  or  worse  than 
another.  He  helpeth,  as  far  as  his  little  means  ex- 
tend, all  around.  He  is  the  least  envious  of  banquets. 
He  is  aU  neighbours'  fare. 

I  am  one  of  those  who  freely  and  ungrudgingly 
242 


A  DISSERTATION    UPON   ROAST  PIG 

impart  a  share  of  the  good  things  of  this  Hfe  wliich 
fall  to  their  lot  (few  as  mine  are  in  this  kind)  to  a 
friend.  I  protest  I  take  as  great  an  interest  in  my 
friend's  pleasures,  his  relishes,  and  proper  satisfac- 
tions, as  in  mine  own.  "Presents,"  I  often  say,  "en- 
dear Absents."  Hares,  pheasants,  partridges,  snipes, 
barn-door  chickens  (those  "tame  villatic  fowl"),  ca- 
pons, plovers,  brawn,  barrels  of  oysters,  I  dispense  as 
freely  as  I  receive  them.  I  love  to  taste  them,  as  it 
were,  upon  the  tongue  of  my  friend.  But  a  stop 
must  be  put  somewhere.  One  would  not,  like  Lear, 
*'give  everything."  I  make  my  stand  upon  pig.  Me- 
thinks  it  is  an  ingratitude  to  the  Giver  of  all  good 
flavours,  to  extradomiciliate,  or  send  out  of  the 
house  slightingly  (under  pretext  of  friendship,  or  I 
know  not  what)  a  blessing  so  particularly  adapted, 
predestined,  I  may  say,  to  my  individual  palate. — 
It  argues  an  insensibility. 

I  remember  a  touch  of  conscience  in  this  kind  at 
school.  My  good  old  aunt,  who  never  parted  from 
me  at  the  end  of  a  hoUday  without  stuffing  a  sweet- 
meat, or  some  nice  thing,  into  my  pocket,  had  dis- 
missed me  one  evening  with  a  smoking  plum-cake, 
fresh  from  the  oven.  In  my  way  to  school  (it  was 
over  London  Bridge)  a  grey-headed  old  beggar  sa- 
luted me  (I  have  no  doubt,  at  this  time  of  day,  that 
he  was  a  counterfeit).  I  had  no  pence  to  console  him 
with,  and  in  the  vanity  of  self-denial,  and  the  very 
coxcombry  of  charity,  school-boy  like,  I  made  him 
a  present  of— the  whole  cake!  I  walked  on  a  little, 

243 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

buoyed  up,  as  one  is  on  such  occasions,  with  a  sweet 
soothing  of  self-satisfaction ;  but,  before  I  had  got  to 
the  end  of  the  bridge,  my  better  feeUngs  returned, 
and  I  burst  into  tears,  thinking  how  ungrateful  I 
had  been  to  my  good  aunt,  to  go  and  give  her  good 
gift  away  to  a  stranger,  that  I  had  never  seen  before, 
and  who  might  be  a  bad  man  for  aught  I  knew; 
and  then  I  thought  of  the  pleasure  my  aunt  would 
be  taking  in  thinking  that  I — I  myself,  and  not  an- 
other— would  eat  her  nice  cake — and  what  should 
I  say  to  her  the  next  time  I  saw  her — how  naughty 
I  was  to  part  with  her  pretty  present! — and  the 
odour  of  that  spicy  cake  came  back  upon  my  recol- 
lection, and  the  pleasure  and  the  curiosity  I  had 
taken  in  seeing  her  make  it,  and  her  joy  when  she 
sent  it  to  the  oven,  and  how  disappointed  she  would 
feel  that  I  had  never  had  a  bit  of  it  in  my  mouth 
at  last — and  I  blamed  my  impertinent  spirit  of 
alms-giving,  and  out-of-place  hypocrisy  of  good- 
ness; and  above  all  I  wished  never  to  see  the  face 
again  of  that  insidious,  good-for-nothing,  old  grey 
impostor. 

Our  ancestors  were  nice  in  their  method  of  sacri- 
ficing these  tender  victims.  We  read  of  pigs  whipt 
to  death  with  something  of  a  shock,  as  we  hear  of 
any  other  obsolete  custom.  The  age  of  discipline 
is  gone  by,  or  it  would  be  curious  to  inquire  (in  a 
philosophical  light  merely)  what  effect  this  process 
might  have  towards  intenerating  and  dulcifying  a 
substance,  naturally  so  mild  and  dulcet  as  the  flesh 
244 


A  DISSERTATION    UPON   ROAST  PIG 

of  young  pigs.  It  looks  like  refining  a  violet.  Yet 
we  should  be  cautious,  while  we  condemn  the  in- 
humanity, how  we  censure  the  wisdom  of  the  prac- 
tice. It  might  impart  a  gusto. — 

I  remember  an  hypothesis,  argued  upon  by  the 
young  students,  when  I  was  at  St.  Omer's,  and 
maintained  with  much  learning  and  pleasantry  on 
both  sides,  "Whether,  supposing  that  the  flavour 
of  a  pig  who  obtained  his  death  by  whipping  {per 
jiagellationem  extremam)  super-added  a  pleasure 
upon  the  palate  of  a  man  more  intense  than  any 
possible  suffering  we  can  conceive  in  the  animal,  is 
man  justified  in  using  that  method  of  putting  the 
animal  to  death  ? "  I  forget  the  decision. 

His  sauce  should  be  considered.  Decidedly,  a  few 
bread  crumbs,  done  up  with  his  liver  and  brains,  and 
a  dash  of  mild  sage.  But  banish,  dear  Mrs.  Cook,  I 
beseech  you,  the  whole  onion  tribe.  Barbecue  your 
whole  hogs  to  your  palate,  steep  them  in  shalots, 
stuff  them  out  with  plantations  of  the  rank  and 
guilty  garlic;  you  cannot  poison  them,  or  make 
them  stronger  than  they  are — but  consider,  he  is  a 
weakling — a  flower. 


245 


A  BACHELOR'S  COMPLAINT  OF  THE 
BEHAVIOUR  OF  MARRIED  PEOPLE 

AS  a  single  man,  I  have  spent  a  good  deal  of  my 
jljL  time  in  noting  down  the  infirmities  of  Married 
People,  to  console  myself  for  those  superior  plea- 
sures, which  they  tell  me  I  have  lost  by  remaining 
as  I  am. 

I  cannot  say  that  the  quarrels  of  men  and  their 
wives  ever  made  any  great  impression  upon  me,  or 
had  much  tendency  to  strengthen  me  in  those  anti- 
social resolutions  which  I  took  up  long  ago  upon 
more  substantial  considerations.  What  oftenest  of- 
fends me  at  the  houses  of  married  persons  where  I 
visit,  is  an  error  of  quite  a  different  description; — 
it  is  that  they  are  too  loving. 

Not  too  loving  neither :  that  does  not  explain  my 
meaning.  Besides,  why  should  that  offend  me  ?  The 
very  act  of  separating  themselves  from  the  rest  of 
the  world,  to  have  the  fuller  enjoyment  of  each 
other's  society,  implies  that  they  prefer  one  another 
to  all  the  world. 

But  what  I  complain  of  is,  that  they  carry  this 
preference  so  undisguisedly,  they  perk  it  up  in  the 
faces  of  us  single  people  so  shamelessly,  you  cannot 
be  in  their  company  a  moment  without  being  made 
to  feel,  by  some  indirect  hint  or  open  avowal,  that 
you  are  not  the  object  of  this  preference.  Now  there 
are  some  things  which  give  no  offence,  while  imphed 
246 


BEHAVIOUR  OF   MARRIED   PEOPLE 

or  taken  for  gi-anted  merely ;  but  expressed,  there  is 
much  offence  in  them.  If  a  man  were  to  accost  the 
first  homely-featured  or  plain-dressed  young  woman 
of  his  acquaintance,  and  tell  her  bluntly,  that  she 
was  not  handsome  or  rich  enough  for  him,  and  he 
could  not  marry  her,  he  would  deserve  to  be  kicked 
for  his  ill-manners ;  yet  no  less  is  implied  in  the  fact, 
that  having  access  and  opportunity  of  putting  the 
question  to  her,  he  has  never  yet  thought  fit  to  do 
it.  The  young  woman  understands  this  as  clearly  as 
if  it  were  put  into  words ;  but  no  reasonable  young 
woman  would  think  of  making  this  the  ground  of  a 
quarrel.  Just  as  little  right  have  a  married  couple  to 
tell  me  by  speeches,  and  looks  that  are  scarce  less 
plain  than  speeches,  that  I  am  not  the  happy  man, 
— the  lady's  choice.  It  is  enough  that  I  know  I  am 
not :  I  do  not  want  this  perpetual  reminding. 

The  display  of  superior  knowledge  or  riches  may 
be  made  sufficiently  mortifying,  but  these  admit  of 
a  palliative.  The  knowledge  which  is  brought  out  to 
insult  me,  may  accidentally  improve  me;  and  in  the 
rich  man's  houses  and  pictures, — his  parks  and  gar- 
dens, I  have  a  temporary  usufi'uct  at  least.  But  the 
display  of  married  happiness  has  none  of  these  pal- 
liatives :  it  is  throughout  pure,  unrecompensed,  un- 
qualified insult. 

Marriage  by  its  best  title  is  a  monopoly,  and  not 
of  the  least  invidious  sort.  It  is  the  cunning  of  most 
possessors  of  any  exclusive  privilege  to  keep  their  ad- 
vantage as  much  out  of  sight  as  possible,  that  their 

247 


THE   ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

less  favoured  neighbours,  seeing  little  of  the  benefit, 
may  the  less  be  disposed  to  question  the  right.  But 
these  married  monopolists  thrust  the  most  obnox- 
ious part  of  their  patent  into  our  faces. 

Nothing  is  to  me  more  distasteful  than  that  en- 
tire complacency  and  satisfaction  which  beam  in  the 
countenances  of  a  new-married  couple, — in  that  of 
the  lady  particularly :  it  tells  you,  that  her  lot  is  dis- 
posed of  in  this  world :  that  you  can  have  no  hopes 
of  her.  It  is  true,  I  have  none:  nor  wishes  either, 
perhaps :  but  this  is  one  of  those  truths  which  ought, 
as  I  said  before,  to  be  taken  for  granted,  not  ex- 
pressed. 

The  excessive  airs  which  those  people  give  them- 
selves, founded  on  the  ignorance  of  us  unmarried 
people,  would  be  more  offensive  if  they  were  less 
irrational.  We  will  allow  them  to  understand  the 
mysteries  belonging  to  their  own  craft  better  than 
we,  who  have  not  had  the  happiness  to  be  made  free 
of  the  company:  but  their  arrogance  is  not  content 
within  these  limits.  If  a  single  person  presume  to 
offer  his  opinion  in  their  presence,  though  upon  the 
most  indifferent  subject,  he  is  immediately  silenced 
as  an  incompetent  person.  Nay,  a  young  married 
lady  of  my  acquaintance,  who,  the  best  of  the  jest 
was,  had  not  changed  her  condition  above  a  fort- 
night before,  in  a  question  on  which  I  had  the  mis- 
fortune to  differ  from  her,  respecting  the  properest 
mode  of  breeding  oysters  for  the  London  market, 
had  the  assurance  to  ask  with  a  sneer,  how  such  an 
248 


BEHAVIOUR  OF   MARRIED   PEOPLE 

old  Bachelor  as  I  could  pretend  to  know  anything 
about  such  matters ! 

But  what  I  have  spoken  of  hitherto  is  nothing  to 
the  airs  which  these  creatures  give  themselves  when 
they  come,  as  they  generally  do,  to  have  children. 
When  I  consider  how  little  of  a  rarity  children  are, 
— that  every  street  and  blind  alley  swarms  with 
them, — that  the  poorest  people  commonly  have 
them  in  most  abundance, — that  there  are  few  mar- 
riages that  are  not  blest  with  at  least  one  of  these 
bargains, — how  often  they  turn  out  ill,  and  defeat 
the  fond  hopes  of  their  parents,  taking  to  vicious 
courses,  which  end  in  poverty,  disgrace,  the  gallows, 
etc. — I  cannot  for  my  life  tell  what  cause  for  pride 
there  can  possibly  be  in  having  them.  If  they  were 
young  phoenixes,  indeed,  that  were  born  but  one  in 
a  year,  there  might  be  a  pretext.  But  when  they 
are  so  common 

I  do  not  advert  to  the  insolent  merit  which  they 
assume  with  their  husbands  on  these  occasions.  Let 
them  look  to  that.  But  why  we,  who  are  not  their 
natural-born  subjects,  should  be  expected  to  bring 
our  spices,  myrrh,  and  incense, — our  tribute  and 
homage  of  admiration,  —  I  do  not  see. 

"Like  as  the  arrows  in  the  hand  of  the  giant, 
even  so  are  the  young  children";  so  says  the  excel- 
lent office  in  our  Prayer-book  appointed  for  the 
churching  of  women.  "  Happy  is  the  man  that  hath 
his  quiver  full  of  them."  So  say  I ;  but  then  don't 
let  him  discharge  his  quiver  upon  us  that  are  wea- 

249 


THE   ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

ponless; — let  them  be  arrows,  but  not  to  gall  and 
stick  us.  I  have  generally  observed  that  these  ar- 
rows are  double-headed ;  they  have  two  forks,  to  be 
sure  to  hit  with  one  or  the  other.  As  for  instance, 
where  you  come  into  a  house  which  is  full  of  chil- 
dren, if  you  happen  to  take  no  notice  of  them  (you 
are  thinking  of  something  else,  perhaps,  and  turn  a 
deaf  ear  to  their  innocent  caresses),  you  are  set 
down  as  untractable,  morose,  a  hater  of  children. 
On  the  other  hand,  if  you  find  them  more  than 
usually  engaging, — if  you  are  taken  with  their 
pretty  manners,  and  set  about  in  earnest  to  romp 
and  play  with  them, — some  pretext  or  other  is  sure 
to  be  found  for  sending  them  out  of  the  room ;  they 

are  too  noisy  or  boisterous,  or  Mr. does  not 

like  children.  With  one  or  other  of  these  forks  the 
arrow  is  sure  to  hit  you. 

I  could  forgive  their  jealousy,  and  dispense  with 
toying  with  their  brats,  if  it  gives  them  any  pain ; 
but  I  think  it  unreasonable  to  be  called  upon  to 
love  them,  where  I  see  no  occasion, — to  love  a  whole 
family,  perhaps  eight,  nine,  or  ten,  indiscriminately, 
— to  love  all  the  pretty  dears,  because  children  are 
so  engaging! 

I  know  there  is  a  proverb,  "Love  me,  love  my 
dog":  that  is  not  always  so  very  practicable,  par- 
ticularly if  the  dog  be  set  upon  you  to  tease  you  or 
snap  at  you  in  sport.  But  a  dog,  or  a  lesser  thing — 
any  inanimate  substance,  as  a  keepsake,  a  watch  or 
a  ring,  a  tree,  or  the  place  where  we  last  parted 
250 


BEHAVIOUR  OF   MARRIED   PEOPLE 

when  my  friend  went  away  upon  a  long  absence,  I 
can  make  shift  to  love,  because  I  love  him,  and  any- 
thing that  reminds  me  of  him ;  provided  it  be  in  its 
nature  indifferent,  and  apt  to  receive  whatever  hue 
fancy  can  give  it.  But  children  have  a  real  character, 
and  an  essential  being  of  themselves :  they  are  ami- 
able or  unamiable  per  se;  I  must  love  or  hate  them 
as  I  see  cause  for  either  in  their  qualities.  A  child's 
nature  is  too  serious  a  thing  to  admit  of  its  being 
regarded  as  a  mere  appendage  to  another  being,  and 
to  be  loved  or  hated  accordingly ;  they  stand  with 
me  upon  their  own  stock,  as  much  as  men  and  wo- 
men do.  Oh !  but  you  will  say,  sure  it  is  an  attrac- 
tive age, — there  is  something  in  the  tender  years  of 
infancy  that  of  itself  charms  us  ?  That  is  the  very 
reason  why  I  am  more  nice  about  them.  I  know 
that  a  sweet  child  is  the  sweetest  thing  in  nature, 
not  even  excepting  the  delicate  creatures  which 
bear  them ;  but  the  prettier  the  kind  of  a  thing  is, 
the  more  desirable  it  is  that  it  should  be  pretty  of 
its  kind.  One  daisy  differs  not  much  from  another 
in  glory;  but  a  violet  should  look  and  smell  the 
daintiest. — I  was  always  rather  squeamish  hi  my 
women  and  children. 

But  this  is  not  the  worst:  one  must  be  admitted 
into  their  familiarity  at  least,  before  they  can  com- 
plain of  inattention.  It  imphes  visits,  and  some  kind 
of  intercourse.  But  if  the  husband  be  a  man  with 
whom  you  have  hved  on  a  friendly  footing  before 
marriage — if  you  did  not  come  in  on  the  life's  side 

251 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

— if  you  did  not  sneak  into  the  house  in  her  train, 
but  were  an  old  friend  in  fast  habits  of  intimacy 
before  their  courtship  was  so  much  as  thought  on, — 
look  about  you — your  tenure  is  precarious — before 
a  twelvemonth  shall  roll  over  your  head,  you  shall 
find  your  old  friend  gradually  grow  cool  and  altered 
towards  you,  and  at  last  seek  opportunities  of  break- 
ing with  you.  I  have  scarce  a  married  friend  of  my 
acquaintance,  upon  whose  firm  faith  I  can  rely, 
whose  friendship  did  not  commence  after  the  period 
of  his  marriage.  With  some  limitations,  they  can 
endure  that;  but  that  the  good  man  should  have 
dared  to  enter  into  a  solemn  league  of  friendship  in 
which  they  were  not  consulted,  though  it  happened 
before  they  knew  him, — before  they  that  are  now 
man  and  wife  ever  met, — this  is  intolerable  to  them. 
Every  long  friendship,  every  old  authentic  intimacy, 
must  be  brought  into  their  office  to  be  new  stamped 
with  their  currency,  as  a  sovereign  prince  calls  in 
the  good  old  money  that  was  coined  in  some  reign 
before  he  was  born  or  thought  of,  to  be  new  marked 
and  minted  with  the  stamp  of  his  authority,  before 
he  will  let  it  pass  current  in  the  world.  You  may 
guess  what  luck  generally  befalls  such  a  rusty  piece 
of  metal  as  I  am  in  these  new  mintings. 

Innumerable  are  the  ways  which  they  take  to  in- 
sult and  worm  you  out  of  their  husband's  confidence. 
Laughing  at  all  you  say  with  a  kind  of  wonder,  as 
if  you  were  a  queer  kind  of  fellow  that  said  good 
things,  but  an  oddity,  is  one  of  the  ways; — they 
252 


BEHAVIOUR   OF   MARRIED   PEOPLE 

have  a  particular  kind  of  stare  for  the  purpose; — 
till  at  last  the  husband,  who  used  to  defer  to  your 
judgment,  and  would  pass  over  some  excrescences 
of  understanding  and  manner  for  the  sake  of  a  gen- 
eral vein  of  observation  (not  quite  vulgar)  which  he 
perceived  in  you,  begins  to  suspect  whether  you 
are  not  altogether  a  humorist, — a  fellow  well  enough 
to  have  consorted  with  in  his  bachelor  days,  but  not 
quite  so  proper  to  be  introduced  to  ladies.  This  may 
be  called  the  staring  way;  and  is  that  which  has 
oftenest  been  put  in  practice  against  me. 

Then  there  is  the  exaggerating  way,  or  the  way 
of  irony;  that  is,  where  they  find  you  an  object  of 
especial  regard  with  their  husband,  who  is  not  so 
easily  to  be  shaken  from  the  lasting  attacimient 
founded  on  esteem  which  he  has  conceived  towards 
you ;  by  never  qualified  exaggerations  to  cry  up  all 
that  you  say  or  do,  till  the  good  man,  who  under- 
stands well  enough  that  it  is  all  done  in  compliment 
to  him,  grows  weary  of  the  debt  of  gratitude  which 
is  due  to  so  much  candour,  and  by  relaxing  a  little 
on  his  part,  and  taking  down  a  peg  or  two  in  his 
enthusiasm,  sinks  at  length  to  the  kindly  level  of 
moderate  esteem — that  "decent  affection  and  com- 
placent kindness"  towards  you,  where  she  herself 
can  join  in  sympathy  with  him  without  much  stretch 
and  violence  to  her  sincerity. 

Another  way  (for  the  ways  they  have  to  accom- 
plish so  desirable  a  purpose  are  infinite)  is,  with  a 
kind  of  innocent  simplicity,  continually  to  mistake 

253 


THE  ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

what  it  was  which  first  made  their  husband  fond  of 
you.  If  an  esteem  for  something  excellent  in  your 
moral  character  was  that  which  riveted  the  chain 
which  she  is  to  break,  upon  any  imaginary  discovery 
of  a  want  of  poignancy  in  your  conversation,  she 
will  cry,  "I  thought,  my  dear,  you  described  your 

friend,  Mr. ,  as  a  great  wit?"  If,  on  the  other 

hand,  it  was  for  some  supposed  charm  in  your  con- 
versation that  he  first  grew  to  like  you,  and  was 
content  for  this  to  overlook  some  trifling  in'egular- 
ities  in  your  moral  deportment,  upon  the  first  no- 
tice of  any  of  these  she  as  readily  exclaims,  "This, 

my  dear,  is  your  good  Mr. 1"  One  good  lady 

whom  I  took  the  liberty  of  expostulating  with  for 
not  showing  me  quite  so  much  respect  as  I  thought 
due  to  her  husband's  old  friend,  had  the  candour  to 

confess  to  me  that  she  had  often  heard  Mr. 

speak  of  me  before  marriage,  and  that  she  had  con- 
ceived a  great  desire  to  be  acquainted  with  me,  but 
that  the  sight  of  me  had  very  much  disappointed 
her  expectations;  for,  from  her  husband's  represen- 
tations of  me,  she  had  formed  a  notion  that  she  was 
to  see  a  fine,  tall,  officer-like  looking  man  (I  use  her 
very  words),  the  very  reverse  of  which  proved  to  be 
the  truth.  This  was  candid;  and  I  had  the  civility 
not  to  ask  her  in  return,  how  she  came  to  pitch 
upon  a  standard  of  personal  accomplishments  for 
her  husband's  friends  which  differed  so  much  from 
his  own;  for  my  friend's  dimensions  as  near  as  pos- 
sible approximate  to  mine;  he  standing  five  feet 
254 


BEHAVIOUR  OF   MARRIED   PEOPLE 

five  in  his  shoes,  in  which  I  have  the  advantao-e  of 
him  by  about  half  an  inch;  and  he  no  more  than 
myself  exhibiting  any  indications  of  a  martial  char- 
acter in  his  air  or  countenance. 

These  are  some  of  the  mortifications  which  I  have 
encountered  in  the  absurd  attempt  to  visit  at  their 
houses.  To  enumerate  them  all  would  be  a  vain  en- 
deavour; I  shall  therefore  just  glance  at  the  very 
common  impropriety  of  which  married  ladies  are 
guilty, — of  treating  us  as  if  we  were  their  husbands, 
and  vice  versa.  I  mean,  when  they  use  us  with  fa- 
miHarity,  and  their  husbands  with  ceremony.  Tes- 
tacea,  for  instance,  kept  me  the  other  night  two 
or  three  hours  beyond  my  usual  time  of  supping, 

while  she  was  fretting  because  JMr. did   not 

come  home,  till  the  oysters  were  all  spoiled,  rather 
than  she  would  be  guilty  of  the  impoliteness  of 
touching  one  in  his  absence.  This  was  reversing  the 
point  of  good  manners:  for  ceremony  is  an  inven- 
tion to  take  off  the  uneasy  feeling  which  we  derive 
from  knowing  ourselves  to  be  less  the  object  of  love 
and  esteem  with  a  fellow- creature  than  some  other 
person  is.  It  endeavours  to  make  up,  by  superior 
attentions  in  little  points,  for  that  invidious  prefer- 
ence which  it  is  forced  to  deny  in  the  greater.  Had 
Testacea  kept  the  oysters  back  for  nic,  and  with- 
stood her  husband's  importunities  to  go  to  supper, 
she  would  have  acted  according  to  the  strict  rules 
of  propriety.  I  know  no  ceremony  that  ladies  are 
bound  to  observe  to  their  husbands,  beyond  the 

256 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

point  of  a  modest  behaviour  and  decorum :  there- 
fore I  must  protest  against  the  vicarious  gluttony 
of  Cerasia,  who  at  her  own  table  sent  away  a  dish 
of  Morellas,  which  I  was  applying  to  with  great  good- 
will, to  her  husband  at  the  other  end  of  the  table, 
and  recommended  a  plate  of  less  extraordinary 
gooseberries  to  my  unwedded  palate  in  their  stead. 

Neither  can  I  excuse  the  wanton  affront  of 

But  I  am  weary  of  stringing  up  all  my  married 
acquaintance  by  Roman  denominations.  Let  them 
amend  and  change  their  manners,  or  I  promise  to 
record  the  full-length  English  of  their  names,  to  the 
terror  of  all  such  desperate  offenders  in  future. 


256 


ON  SOME   OF  THE  OLD  ACTORS 

THE  casual  sight  of  an  old  Play  Bill,  which  I 
picked  up  the  other  day — I  know  not  by  what 
chance  it  was  preserved  so  long — tempts  me  to  call 
to  mind  a  few  of  the  Players,  who  make  the  prin- 
cipal figure  in  it.  It  presents  the  cast  of  parts  in  the 
Twelfth  Night,  at  the  old  Drury-lane  Theatre  two- 
and-thirty  years  ago.  There  is  something  very  touch- 
ing in  these  old  remembrances.  They  make  us  think 
how  we  once  used  to  read  a  Play  Bill — not,  as  now 
peradventure,  singling  out  a  favourite  performer, 
and  casting  a  negligent  eye  over  the  rest;  but  spell- 
ing out  every  name,  down  to  the  very  mutes  and 
servants  of  the  scene;  when  it  was  a  matter  of  no 
small  moment  to  us  whether  Whitfield,  or  Packer, 
took  the  part  of  Fabian ;  when  Benson,  and  Burton, 
and  Phillimore — names  of  small  account — had  an 
importance,  beyond  what  we  can  be  content  to  at- 
tribute now  to  the  time's  best  actors. — "Orsino,  by 
Mr.  Barrymore." — What  a  full  Shakspearian  sound 
it  carries !  how  fresh  to  memory  arise  the  image  and 
the  manner  of  the  gentle  actor!  Those  who  have 
only  seen  Mrs.  Jordan  within  the  last  ten  or  fifteen 
years,  can  have  no  adequate  notion  of  her  perform- 
ance of  such  parts  as  Opheha;  Helena,  in  All's  AV^ell 
that  Ends  Well;  and  Viola,  in  this  play.  Her  voice 
had  latterly  acquired  a  coarseness,  which  suited  well 
enough  with  her  Nells  and  Hoydens,  but  in  those 

257 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

days  it  sank,  with  her  steady,  melting  eye,  into  the 
heart.  Her  joyous  parts — in  which  her  memory 
now  chiefly  Hves — in  her  youth  were  outdone  by 
her  plaintive  ones.  There  is  no  giving  an  account 
how  she  delivered  the  disguised  story  of  her  love 
for  Orsino.  It  was  no  set  speech,  that  she  had  fore- 
seen, so  as  to  weave  it  into  an  harmonious  period, 
line  necessarily  following  line,  to  make  up  the  music 
— yet  I  have  heard  it  so  spoken,  or  rather  read,  not 
without  its  grace  and  beauty — but,  when  she  had 
declared  her  sister's  history  to  be  a  "blank,"  and 
that  she  "never  told  her  love,"  there  was  a  pause, 
as  if  the  story  had  ended — and  then  the  image  of 
the  "worm  in  the  bud"  came  up  as  a  new  sugges- 
tion— and  the  heightened  image  of  "Patience"  still 
followed  after  that,  as  by  some  growing  (and  not 
mechanical)  process,  thought  springing  up  after 
thought,  I  would  almost  say,  as  they  were  watered 
by  her  tears.  So  in  those  fine  lines — 

Write  loyal  cantons  of  contemned  love — 
Halloo  your  name  to  the  reverberate  hills — 

there  was  no  preparation  made  in  the  foregoing 
image  for  that  which  was  to  follow.  She  used  no 
rhetoric  in  her  passion ;  or  it  was  nature's  own  rhet- 
oric, most  legitimate  then,  when  it  seemed  alto- 
gether without  rule  or  law. 

Mrs.  Powel  (now  Mrs.  Renard),  then  in  the  pride 
of  her  beauty,  made  an  admirable  Olivia.  She  was 
particularly  excellent  in  her  unbending  scenes  in 
258 


ON   SOME   OF   THE   OLD   ACTORS 

conversation  with  the  Clown.  I  have  seen  some 
Ohvias — and  those  very  sensible  actresses  too — 
who  in  these  interlocutions  have  seemed  to  set 
their  wits  at  the  jester,  and  to  vie  conceits  with 
him  in  downright  emulation.  But  she  used  him  for 
her  sport,  like  what  he  was,  to  trifle  a  leisure  sen- 
tence or  two  with,  and  then  to  be  dismissed,  and 
she  to  be  the  Great  Lady  still.  She  touched  tlie 
imperious  fantastic  humour  of  the  character  with 
nicety.  Her  fine  spacious  person  filled  the  scene. 

The  part  of  Malvolio  has,  in  my  judgment,  been 
so  often  misunderstood,  and  the  general  merits  of 
the  actor,  who  then  played  it,  so  unduly  appre- 
ciated, that  I  shall  hope  for  pardon,  if  I  am  a  little 
prolix  upon  these  points. 

Of  all  the  actors  who  flourished  in  my  time — a 
melancholy  phrase  if  taken  aright,  reader — Bensley 
had  most  of  the  swell  of  soul,  was  greatest  in  the 
delivery  of  heroic  conceptions,  the  emotions  conse- 
quent upon  the  presentment  of  a  great  idea  to  tlie 
fancy.  He  had  the  true  poetical  entluisiasm — the 
rarest  faculty  among  players.  None  tliat  I  remem- 
ber possessed  even  a  portion  of  that  fine  madness 
which  he  threw  out  in  Hotspur's  famous  rant  about 
glory,  or  the  transports  of  the  Venetian  incendiary 
at  the  vision  of  the  fired  city.  His  voice  had  the  dis- 
sonance, and  at  times  the  inspiriting  effect,  of  the 
trumpet.  His  gait  was  uncouth  and  stiff',  but  no 
way  embarrassed  by  affectation;  and  the  thoroiiii:li- 
bred  gentleman  was  uppermost  in  every  movenient. 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

He  seized  the  moment  of  passion  with  the  greatest 
truth ;  hke  a  faithful  clock,  never  striking  before  the 
time;  never  anticipating  or  leading  you  to  antici- 
pate. He  was  totally  destitute  of  trick  and  artifice. 
He  seemed  come  upon  the  stage  to  do  the  poet's 
message  simply,  and  he  did  it  with  as  genuine  fidel- 
ity as  the  nuncios  in  Homer  deliver  the  errands  of 
the  gods.  He  let  the  passion  or  the  sentiment  do  its 
own  work  without  prop  or  bolstering.  He  would 
have  scorned  to  mountebank  it;  and  betrayed  none 
of  that  cleverness  which  is  the  bane  of  serious  act- 
ing. For  this  reason,  his  lago  was  the  only  en- 
durable one  which  I  remember  to  have  seen.  No 
spectator,  from  his  action,  could  divine  more  of 
his  artifice  than  Othello  was  supposed  to  do.  His 
confessions  in  soliloquy  alone  put  you  in  posses- 
sion of  the  mystery.  There  were  no  by-intimations 
to  make  the  audience  fancy  their  own  discernment 
so  much  greater  than  that  of  the  Moor — who  com- 
monly stands  like  a  great  helpless  mark,  set  up  for 
mine  Ancient,  and  a  quantity  of  barren  spectators, 
to  shoot  their  bolts  at.  The  lago  of  Bensley  did  not 
go  to  work  so  grossly.  There  was  a  triumphant  tone 
about  the  character,  natural  to  a  general  conscious- 
ness of  power ;  but  none  of  that  petty  vanity  which 
chuckles  and  cannot  contain  itself  upon  any  little 
successful  stroke  of  its  knavery — as  is  common  with 
your  small  villains,  and  green  probationers  in  mis- 
chief. It  did  not  clap  or  crow  before  its  time.  It  was 
not  a  man  setting  his  wits  at  a  child,  and  winking 
260 


ON   SOME   OF   THE   OLD   ACTORS 

all  the  while  at  other  children  who  are  mightily- 
pleased  at  being  let  into  the  secret;  but  a  consum- 
mate villain  entrapping  a  noble  nature  into  toils 
against  which  no  discernment  was  available,  where 
the  manner  was  as  fathomless  as  the  purpose  seemed 
dark,  and  without  motive.  The  part  of  Malvoho,  in 
the  Twelfth  Night,  was  performed  by  Bensley  with 
a  richness  and  a  dignity,  of  which  (to  judge  from 
some  recent  castings  of  that  character)  the  very 
tradition  must  be  worn  out  from  the  stage.  No 
manager  in  those  days  would  have  dreamed  of  giv- 
ing it  to  Mr.  Baddely,  or  Mr.  Parsons;  when  Bens- 
ley  was  occasionally  absent  from  the  theatre,  John 
Kemble  thought  it  no  derogation  to  succeed  to  the 
part.  Malvolio  is  not  essentially  ludicrous.  He  be- 
comes comic  but  by  accident.  He  is  cold,  austere, 
repelling;  but  dignified,  consistent,  and,  for  what 
appears,  rather  of  an  over-stretched  morality.  Maria 
describes  him  as  a  sort  of  Puritan;  and  he  might 
have  worn  his  gold  chain  with  honour  in  one  of  our 
old  roundhead  f[imilies,  in  the  service  of  a  Lambert, 
or  a  Lady  Fairfax.  But  his  morality  and  his  man- 
ners are  misplaced  in  Illyria.  He  is  opposed  to  the 
proper  levities  of  the  piece,  and  falls  in  the  unequal 
contest.  Still  his  pride,  or  his  gravity  (call  it  which 
you  will),  is  inherent,  and  native  to  the  man,  not 
mock  or  affected,  which  latter  only  are  the  fit  ob- 
jects to  excite  laughter.  His  quality  is  at  the  best 
unlovely,  but  neither  buffoon  nor  contemptible. 
His  bearing  is  lofty,  a  Uttle  above  his  station,  but 

261 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

probably  not  much  above  his  deserts.  We  see  no 
reason  why  he  should  not  have  been  brave,  honour- 
able, accomplished.  His  careless  committal  of  the 
ring  to  the  ground  (which  he  was  commissioned  to 
restore  to  Cesario),  bespeaks  a  generosity  of  birth 
and  feeling.  His  dialect  on  all  occasions  is  that  of  a 
gentleman  and  a  man  of  education.  We  must  not 
confound  him  with  the  eternal  old,  low  steward  of 
comedy.  He  is  master  of  the  household  to  a  great 
princess ;  a  dignity  probably  conferred  upon  him  for 
other  respects  than  age  or  length  of  service.  Olivia, 
at  the  first  indication  of  his  supposed  madness,  de- 
clares that  she  "would  not  have  him  miscarry  for 
half  of  her  dowry."  Does  this  look  as  if  the  charac- 
ter was  meant  to  appear  little  or  insignificant  ?  Once, 
indeed,  she  accuses  him  to  his  face — of  what? — of 
being  "sick  of  self-love," — but  with  a  gentleness 
and  considerateness,  which  could  not  have  been,  if 
she  had  not  thought  that  this  particular  infirmity 
shaded  some  virtues.  His  rebuke  to  the  knight,  and 
his  sottish  revellers,  is  sensible  and  spirited;  and 
when  we  take  into  consideration  the  unprotected 
condition  of  his  mistress,  and  the  strict  regard  with 
which  her  state  of  real  or  dissembled  mourning  would 
draw  the  eyes  of  the  world  upon  her  house-affairs, 
Malvolio  might  feel  the  honour  of  the  family  in 
some  sort  in  his  keeping;  as  it  appears  not  that 
Olivia  had  any  more  brothers,  or  kinsmen,  to  look 
to  it — for  Sir  Toby  had  dropped  all  such  nice  re- 
spects at  the  buttery-hatch.  That  Malvolio  was 
262 


ON    SOME   OF   THE   OLD   ACTORS 

meant  to  be  represented  as  possessing  estimable 
qualities,  the  expression  of  the  Duke,  in  his  anxi- 
ety to  have  him  reconciled,  almost  infers:  "Pursue 
him,  and  entreat  him  to  a  peace."  Even  in  his 
abused  state  of  chains  and  darkness,  a  sort  of  great- 
ness seems  never  to  desert  him.  He  argues  highly 
and  well  with  the  supposed  Sir  Topas,  and  philoso- 
phizes gallantly  upon  his  straw.^  There  must  have 
been  some  shadow  of  worth  about  the  man;  he 
must  have  been  something  more  than  a  mere  va- 
pour— a  thing  of  straw,  or  Jack  in  office — before 
Fabian  and  Maria  could  have  ventured  sending  him 
upon  a  courting-errand  to  Olivia.  There  was  some 
consonancy  (as  he  would  say)  in  the  undertaking, 
or  the  jest  would  have  been  too  bold  even  for  that 
house  of  misrule. 

Bensley,  accordingly,  threw  over  the  part  an  air 
of  Spanish  loftiness.  He  looked,  spake,  and  moved 
like  an  old  Castilian.  He  was  starch,  spruce,  opin- 
ionated, but  his  superstructure  of  pride  seemed  bot- 
tomed upon  a  sense  of  worth.  There  was  something 
in  it  beyond  the  coxcomb.  It  was  big  and  swelling, 
but  you  could  not  be  sure  that  it  was  hollow.  You 
might  wish  to  see  it  taken  down,  but  you  felt  that 
it  was  upon  an  elevation.  He  was  magnificent  from 
the  outset;  but  when  the  decent  sobrieties  of  the 

*  Clonm.  What  is  the  opinion  of  Pythagoras  concerning  wild  fowl  ? 
Mai  That  the  soul  of  our  grandam  might  haply  inhabit  a  bird. 
Cbnm.  What  thinkest  thou  of  his  opinion  ? 

Mai  I  think  nobly  of  the  soul,  and  no  way  approve  of  his  opinion. 

263 


THE   ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

character  began  to  give  way,  and  the  poison  of  self- 
love,  in  his  conceit  of  the  Countess's  affection,  grad- 
ually to  work,  you  would  have  thought  that  the  hero 
of  La  Mancha  in  person  stood  before  you.  How  he 
went  smiling  to  himself!  with  what  ineffable  care- 
lessness would  he  twirl  his  gold  chain !  what  a  dream 
it  was !  you  were  infected  with  the  illusion,  and  did 
not  wish  that  it  should  be  removed!  you  had  no 
room  for  laughter !  if  an  unseasonable  reflection  of 
morahty  obtruded  itself,  it  was  a  deep  sense  of  the 
pitiable  infirmity  of  man's  nature,  that  can  lay  him 
open  to  such  frenzies — but,  in  truth,  you  rather  ad- 
mired than  pitied  the  lunacy  while  it  lasted — you 
felt  that  an  hour  of  such  mistake  was  worth  an  age 
with  the  eyes  open.  Who  would  not  wish  to  live 
but  for  a  day  in  the  conceit  of  such  a  lady's  love  as 
Olivia?  Why,  the  Duke  would  have  given  his  prin- 
cipality but  for  a  quarter  of  a  minute,  sleeping  or 
waking,  to  have  been  so  deluded.  The  man  seemed 
to  tread  upon  air,  to  taste  manna,  to  walk  with  his 
head  in  the  clouds,  to  mate  Hyperion.  O!  shake 
not  the  castles  of  his  pride — endure  yet  for  a  sea- 
son, bright  moments  of  confidence — "stand  still,  ye 
watches  of  the  element,"  that  Malvolio  may  be  still 
in  fancy  fair  Olivia's  lord ! — but  fate  and  retribution 
say  no — I  hear  the  mischievous  titter  of  Maria — 
the  witty  taunts  of  Sir  Toby — the  still  more  in- 
supportable triumph  of  the  foolish  knight — the 
counterfeit  Sir  Topas  is  unmasked — and  "thus  the 
whirhgig  of  time,"  as  the  true  clown  hath  it,  "brings 
264 


ON   SOME   OF   THE   OLD   ACTORS 

in  his  revenges."  I  confess  that  I  never  saw  the  ca- 
tastrophe of  this  character,  while  Bensley  played  it, 
without  a  kind  of  tragic  interest.  There  was  good 
foolery  too.  Few  now  remember  Dodd.  What  an 
Aguecheek  the  stage  lost  in  him  I  Lovegrove,  who 
came  nearest  to  the  old  actors,  revived  the  char- 
acter some  few  seasons  ago,  and  made  it  sufficiently 
grotesque ;  but  Dodd  was  it,  as  it  came  out  of  na- 
ture's hands.  It  might  be  said  to  remain  in  puris 
naturalibus.  In  expressing  slowness  of  apprehen- 
sion, this  actor  surpassed  all  others.  You  could  see 
the  first  dawn  of  an  idea  stealing  slowly  over  his 
countenance,  climbing  up  by  little  and  little,  with 
a  painful  process,  till  it  cleared  up  at  last  to  the  ful- 
ness of  a  twilight  conception — its  highest  meridian. 
He  seemed  to  keep  back  his  intellect,  as  some  have 
had  the  power  to  retard  their  pulsation.  The  bal- 
loon takes  less  time  in  filling  than  it  took  to  cover 
the  expansion  of  his  broad  moony  face  over  all  its 
quarters  with  expression.  A  glimmer  of  understand- 
ing would  appear  in  a  corner  of  his  eye,  and  for  lack 
of  fuel  go  out  again.  A  part  of  his  forehead  would 
catch  a  little  intelligence,  and  be  a  long  time  in 
communicating  it  to  the  remainder. 

I  am  ill  at  dates,  but  I  think  it  is  now  better 
than  five-and-twenty  years  ago,  that  walking  in  the 
gardens  of  Gray's  Inn — they  were  then  far  finer 
than  they  are  now — the  accursed  Verulam  Build- 
ings had  not  encroached  upon  all  the  east  side  of 
them,  cutting  out  delicate  green  crankles,  and  shoul- 

265 


THE   ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

dering  away  one  of  two  of  the  stately  alcoves  of  the 
terrace — the  survivor  stands  gaping  and  relation- 
less  as  if  it  remembered  its  brother — they  are  still 
the  best  gardens  of  any  of  the  Inns  of  Court,  my 
beloved  Temple  not  forgotten — have  the  gravest 
character;  their  aspect  being  altogether  reverend 
and  law-breathing — Bacon  has  left  the  impress  of 
his  foot  upon  their  gravel  walks taking  my  af- 
ternoon solace  on  a  summer  day  upon  the  aforesaid 
terrace,  a  comely  sad  personage  came  towards  me, 
whom,  from  his  grave  air  and  deportment,  I  judged 
to  be  one  of  the  old  Benchers  of  the  Inn.  He  had  a 
serious,  thoughtful  forehead,  and  seemed  to  be  in 
meditations  of  mortality.  As  I  have  an  instinctive 
awe  of  old  Benchers,  I  was  passing  him  with  that 
sort  of  sub-indicative  token  of  respect  which  one  is 
apt  to  demonstrate  towards  a  venerable  stranger, 
and  which  rather  denotes  an  inclination  to  greet 
him,  than  any  positive  motion  of  the  body  to  that 
effect — a  species  of  humility  and  will-worship  which 
I  observe,  nine  times  out  of  ten,  rather  puzzles  than 
pleases  the  person  it  is  offered  to — when  the  face 
turning  full  upon  me  strangely  identified  itself  with 
that  of  Dodd.  Upon  close  inspection  I  was  not  mis- 
taken. But  could  this  sad  thoughtful  countenance 
be  the  same  vacant  face  of  folly  which  I  had  hailed 
so  often  under  circumstances  of  gaiety ;  which  I  had 
never  seen  without  a  smile,  or  recognised  but  as  the 
usher  of  mirth ;  that  looked  out  so  formally  fiat  in 
Foppington,  so  frothily  pert  in  Tattle,  so  impotently 
^66 


ON   SOME   OF   THE   OLD   ACTORS 

busy  in  Backbite;  so  blankly  divested  of  all  mean- 
ing, or  resolutely  expressive  of  none,  in  Acres,  in 
Fribble,  and  a  thousand  agreeable  impertinences? 
Was  this  the  face — full  of  thought  and  carefulness 
— that  had  so  often  divested  itself  at  will  of  every 
trace  of  either  to  give  me  diversion,  to  clear  my 
cloudy  face  for  two  or  three  hours  at  least  of  its 
furrows!  Was  this  the  face — manly,  sober,  intelli- 
gent— which  I  had  so  often  despised,  made  mocks 
at,  made  merry  with!  The  remembrance  of  the 
freedoms  which  I  had  taken  with  it  came  upon  me 
with  a  reproach  of  insult.  I  could  have  asked  it  par- 
don. I  thought  it  looked  upon  me  with  a  sense  of 
injury.  There  is  something  strange  as  well  as  sad  in 
seeing  actors — your  pleasant  fellows  particularly — 
subjected  to  and  suffering  the  common  lot; — their 
fortunes,  their  casualties,  their  deaths,  seem  to  be- 
long to  the  scene,  their  actions  to  be  amenable  to 
poetic  justice  only.  We  can  hardly  connect  them 
with  more  awful  responsibilities.  The  death  of  this 
fine  actor  took  place  shortly  after  this  meeting. 
He  had  quitted  the  stage  some  months;  and,  as  I 
learned  afterwards,  had  been  in  the  habit  of  resort- 
ing daily  to  these  gardens,  almost  to  the  day  of  his 
decease.  In  these  serious  walks,  probably,  he  was 
divesting  himself  of  many  scenic  and  some  real 
vanities — weaning  himself  from  the  frivolities  of 
the  lesser  and  the  greater  theatre — doing  gentle 
penance  for  a  life  of  no  very  reprehensible  fooleries 
— taking  off  by  degrees  the  buffoon  mask  which  he 

267 


THE  ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

might  feel  he  had  worn  too  long — and  rehearsing 
for  a  more  solemn  cast  of  part.  Dying,  he  "put  on 
the  weeds  of  Dominic."^ 

If  few  can  remember  Dodd,  many  yet  living  will 
not  easily  forget  the  pleasant  creature,  who  in  those 
days  enacted  the  part  of  the  Clown  to  Dodd's  Sir 
Andrew. — Richard,  or  rather  Dicky  Suett — for  so 
in  his  life-time  he  delighted  to  be  called,  and  time 
hath  ratified  the  appellation — lieth  buried  on  the 
north  side  of  the  cemetery  of  Holy  Paul,  to  whose 
service  his  nonage  and  tender  years  were  dedicated. 
There  are  who  do  yet  remember  him  at  that  period 
— his  pipe  clear  and  harmonious.  He  would  often 
speak  of  his  chorister  days,  when  he  was  "cherub 
Dicky." 

What  clipped  his  wings,  or  made  it  expedient 
that  he  should  exchange  the  holy  for  the  profane 
state;  whether  he  had  lost  his  good  voice  (his  best 
recommendation  to  that  office),  like  Sir  John, 
"with  hallooing  and  singing  of  anthems  " ;  or  whether 

*  Dodd  was  a  man  of  reading,  and  left  at  his  death  a  choice 
collection  of  old  English  literature.  I  should  judge  him  to  have 
been  a  man  of  wit.  I  know  one  instance  of  an  impromptu  which 
no  length  of  study  could  have  bettered.  My  merry  friend,  Jem 
White,  had  seen  him  one  evening  in  Aguecheek,  and  recognising 
Dodd  the  next  day  in  Fleet  Street,  was  irresistibly  impelled  to 
take  off  his  hat  and  salute  him  as  the  identical  Knight  of  the 
preceding  evening  with  a  "Save  you.  Sir  Andrew."  Dodd,  not  at 
all  disconcerted  at  this  unusual  address  from  a  stranger,  with  a 
courteous  half-rebuking  wave  of  the  hand,  put  him  off  with  an 
"Away,  Fool." 
268 


ON   SOME   OF   THE   OLD   ACTORS 

he  was  adjudged  to  lack  something,  even  m  those 
early  years,  of  the  gravity  indispensable  to  an  occu- 
pation which  professeth  to  "commerce  with  the 
skies," — I  could  never  rightly  learn;  but  we  find 
him,  after  the  probation  of  a  twelvemonth  or  so, 
reverting  to  a  secular  condition  and  become  one  of 
us. 

I  think  he  was  not  altogether  of  that  timber  out 
of  which  cathedral  seats  and  sounding-boards  are 
hewed.  But  if  a  glad  heart — kind,  and  therefore 
glad — be  any  part  of  sanctity,  then  might  the  robe 
of  Motley,  with  which  he  invested  himself  with  so 
much  humility  after  his  deprivation,  and  which  he 
wore  so  long  with  so  much  blameless  satisfaction  to 
himself  and  to  the  public,  be  accepted  for  a  surplice 
— his  white  stole,  and  albe. 

The  first  fruits  of  his  secularization  was  an  en- 
gagement upon  the  boards  of  Old  Drury,  at  which 
theatre  he  commenced,  as  I  have  been  told,  with 
adopting  the  manner  of  Parsons  in  old  men's  char- 
acters. At  the  period  in  which  most  of  us  knew 
him,  he  was  no  more  an  imitator  than  he  was  in  any 
true  sense  himself  imitable. 

He  was  the  Robin  Goodfellow  of  the  stage.  He 
came  in  to  trouble  all  things  with  a  welcome  per- 
plexity, himself  no  whit  troubled  for  the  matter.  He 
was  known,  hke  Puck,  by  his  note — Ha!  Ha!  Ha! 
— sometimes  deepening  to  Ho!  Ho!  Ho!  with  an 
irresistible  accession,  derived,  perhaps,  remotely  from 
his  ecclesiastical  education,  foreign  to  his  prototype 

269 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

of — O  La!  Thousands  of  hearts  yet  respond  to  the 
chuckling  O  La!  of  Dicky  Suett,  brought  back  to 
their  remembrance  by  the  faithful  transcript  of  his 
friend  Mathews's  mimicry.  The  "force  of  nature 
could  no  further  go."  He  drolled  upon  the  stock  of 
these  two  syllables  richer  than  the  cuckoo. 

Care,  that  troubles  all  the  world,  was  forgotten 
in  his  composition.  Had  he  had  but  two  grains  (nay, 
half  a  grain)  of  it,  he  could  never  have  supported 
himself  upon  those  two  spider's  strings,  which  served 
him  (in  the  latter  part  of  his  unmixed  existence)  as 
legs.  A  doubt  or  a  scruple  must  have  made  him 
totter,  a  sigh  have  puffed  him  down ;  the  weight  of 
a  frown  had  staggered  him,  a  wrinkle  made  him 
lose  his  balance.  But  on  he  went,  scrambling  upon 
those  airy  stilts  of  his,  with  Robin  Goodfellow, 
"thorough  brake,  thorough  briar,"  reckless  of  a 
scratched  face  or  a  torn  doublet. 

Shakspeare  foresaw  him,  when  he  framed  his  fools 
and  jesters.  They  have  all  the  true  Suett  stamp,  a 
loose  and  shambling  gait,  a  slippery  tongue,  this 
last  the  ready  midwife  to  a  without-pain-delivered 
jest;  in  words,  light  as  air,  venting  truths  deep  as 
the  centre ;  with  idlest  rhymes  tagging  conceit  when 
busiest,  singing  with  Lear  in  the  tempest,  or  Sir 
Toby  at  the  buttery-hatch. 

Jack  Bannister  and  he  had  the  fortune  to  be 

more  of  personal  favourites  with  the  town  than  any 

actors  before  or  after.  The  difference,  I  take  it,  was 

this: — Jack  was  more  beloved  for  his  sweet,  good- 

270 


ON   SOME   OF   THE   OLD   ACTORS 

natured,  moral  pretensions.  Dicky  was  more  liked 
for  his  sweet,  good-natured,  no  pretensions  at  all. 
Your  whole  conscience  stirred  with  Bannister's  per- 
formance of  Walter  in  the  Children  in  the  Wood — 
but  Dicky  seemed  like  a  thing,  as  Shakspeare  says 
of  Love,  too  young  to  know  what  conscience  is.  He 
put  us  into  Vesta's  days.  Evil  fled  before  him — not 
as  from  Jack,  as  from  an  antagonist, — but  because 
it  could  not  touch  him,  any  more  than  a  cannon- 
ball  a  fly.  He  was  delivered  from  the  burthen  of 
that  death;  and,  when  Death  came  himself,  not  in 
metaphor,  to  fetch  Dicky,  it  is  recorded  of  him  by 
Robert  Palmer,  who  kindly  watched  his  exit,  that 
he  received  the  last  stroke,  neither  varying  his  ac- 
customed tranquillity,  nor  tune,  with  the  simple 
exclamation,  worthy  to  have  been  recorded  in  his 
epitaph— O  La!  O  La!  Bobby! 

The  elder  Palmer  (of  stage-trading  celebrity)  com- 
monly played  Sir  Toby  in  those  days;  but  there  is 
a  solidity  of  wit  in  the  jests  of  that  half-Falstaff 
which  he  did  not  quite  fill  out.  He  was  as  much  too 
showy  as  Moody  (who  sometimes  took  the  part) 
was  dry  and  sottish.  In  sock  or  buskin  there  was  an 
air  of  swaggering  gentility  about  Jack  Palmer.  He 
was  a  gentleman  with  a  slight  infusion  of  the  foot- 
man.  His  brother  Bob  (of  recenter  memory),  who 
was  his  shadow  in  everything  while  he  lived,  and 
dwindled  into  less  than  a  shadow  afterwards  —  was 
a  gentleman  with  a  little  stronger  infusion  of  the 
latter  ingredient;  that  was  all.  It  is  amazing  liow  a 

271 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

little  of  the  more  or  less  makes  a  difference  in  these 
things.  When  you  saw  Bobby  in  the  Duke's  Ser- 
vant,^ you  said,  "What  a  pity  such  a  pretty  fellow 
was  only  a  servant!"  When  you  saw  Jack  figuring 
in  Captain  Absolute,  you  thought  you  could  trace 
his  promotion  to  some  lady  of  quality  who  fancied 
the  handsome  fellow  in  his  topknot,  and  had  bought 
him  a  commission.  Therefore  Jack  in  Dick  Amlet 
was  insuperable. 

Jack  had  two  voices,  both  plausible,  hypocritical, 
and  insinuating ;  but  his  secondary  or  supplemental 
voice  still  more  decisively  histrionic  than  his  com- 
mon one.  It  was  reserved  for  the  spectator;  and  the 
dramatis  'personoe  were  supposed  to  know  nothing 
at  all  about  it.  The  lies  of  Young  Wilding,  and  the 
sentiments  in  Joseph  Surface,  were  thus  marked  out 
in  a  sort  of  italics  to  the  audience.  This  secret  corre- 
spondence with  the  company  before  the  curtain 
(which  is  the  bane  and  death  of  tragedy)  has  an  ex- 
tremely happy  effect  in  some  kinds  of  comedy,  in 
the  more  highly  artificial  comedy  of  Congreve  or  of 
Sheridan  especially,  where  the  absolute  sense  of 
reality  (so  indispensable  to  scenes  of  interest)  is  not 
required,  or  would  rather  interfere  to  diminish  your 
pleasure.  The  fact  is,  you  do  not  believe  in  such 
characters  as  Surface — the  villain  of  artificial  com- 
edy— even  while  you  read  or  see  them.  If  you  did, 
they  would  shock  and  not  divert  you.  When  Ben, 
in  Love  for  Love,  returns  from  sea,  the  following 
^  High  Life  Below  Stairs. 


ON   SOME   OF  THE   OLD   ACTORS 

exquisite  dialogue  occurs  at  his  first  meeting  with 
his  father : — 

Sir  Sampson.  Thou  hast  been  many  a  weary  league,  Ben,  since 
I  saw  thee. 

Ben.  Ey,  ey,  been.  Been  far  enough,  an  that  be  all. — Well, 
father,  and  how  do  all  at  home?  how  does  brother  Dick  and 
brother  Val.'' 

Sir  Sampson.  Dick !  body  o'  me,  Dick  has  been  dead  these  two 
years.  I  writ  you  word  when  you  were  at  Leghorn. 

Ben.  Mess,  that's  true;  Marry,  I  had  forgot.  Dick's  dead,  as 
you  say — well,  and  how.-* — I  have  a  many  questions  to  ask  you. 

Here  is  an  instance  of  insensibihty  which  in  real 
life  would  be  revolting,  or  rather  in  real  life  could 
not  have  co-existed  with  the  warm-hearted  temper- 
ament of  the  character.  But  when  you  read  it  in  tlie 
spirit  with  which  such  playful  selections  and  spe- 
cious combinations  rather  than  strict  metaphrases  of 
nature  should  be  taken,  or  when  you  saw  Bannister 
play  it,  it  neither  did,  nor  does,  wound  the  moral 
sense  at  all.  For  what  is  Ben — the  pleasant  sailor 
which  Bannister  gives  us — but  a  piece  of  satire — 
a  creation  of  Congreve's  fancy — a  dreamy  combi- 
nation of  all  the  accidents  of  a  sailor's  character— 
his  contempt  of  money— his  credulity  to  women  — 
with  that  necessary  estrangement  from  home  whicli 
it  is  just  within  the  verge  of  credibility  to  suppose 
might  produce  such  an  hallucination  as  is  here  de- 
scribed. We  never  think  the  worse  of  Ben  for  it, 
or  feel  it  as  a  stain  upon  his  character.  But  when  an 
actor  comes,  and  instead  of  the  delightful  phantom 

273 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

— the  creature  dear  to  half- belief — which  Bannister 
exhibited — displays  before  our  eyes  a  downright 
concretion  of  a  Wapping  sailor — a  jolly  warm- 
hearted Jack  Tar — and  nothing  else — when  in- 
stead of  investing  it  with  a  delicious  confusedness 
of  the  head,  and  a  veering  undirected  goodness  of 
purpose — he  gives  to  it  a  downright  daylight  under- 
standing, and  a  fuU  consciousness  of  its  actions; 
thrusting  forward  the  sensibilities  of  the  character 
with  a  pretence  as  if  it  stood  upon  nothing  else,  and 
was  to  be  judged  by  them  alone — we  feel  the  dis- 
cord of  the  thing;  the  scene  is  disturbed;  a  real  man 
has  got  in  among  the  dramatis  pet'sonce,  and  puts 
them  out.  We  want  the  sailor  turned  out.  We  feel 
that  his  true  place  is  not  behind  the  curtain,  but  in 
the  first  or  second  gallery. 


374 


ON   THE   ARTIFICIAL   COMEDY   OF 
THE   LAST  CENTURY 

THE  artificial  Comedy,  or  Comedy  of  manners, 
is  quite  extinct  on  our  stage.  Congreve  and 
Farquhar  show  their  heads  once  in  seven  years  only, 
to  be  exploded  and  put  down  instantly.  The  times 
cannot  bear  them.  Is  it  for  a  few  wild  speeches,  an 
occasional  license  of  dialogue?  I  think  not  alto- 
gether. The  business  of  their  dramatic  characters 
will  not  stand  the  moral  test.  We  screw  everything 
up  to  that.  Idle  gallantry  in  a  fiction,  a  dream,  the 
passing  pageant  of  an  evening,  startles  us  in  the 
same  way  as  the  alarming  indications  of  profligacy 
in  a  son  or  ward  in  real  life  should  startle  a  parent 
or  guardian.  We  have  no  such  middle  emotions  as 
dramatic  interests  left.  We  see  a  stage  libertine 
playing  his  loose  pranks  of  two  hours'  duration, 
and  of  no  after  consequence,  with  the  severe  eyes 
which  inspect  real  vices  with  their  bearings  upon 
two  worlds.  We  are  spectators  to  a  plot  or  intrigue 
(not  reducible  in  life  to  the  point  of  strict  morality), 
and  take  it  all  for  truth.  We  substitute  a  real  for  a 
dramatic  person,  and  judge  him  accordingly.  We 
try  him  in  our  courts,  from  which  there  is  no  ap- 
peal to  the  dramatis  personce,  his  peers.  We  have 
been  spoiled  with— not  sentimental  comedy-  but 
a  tyrant  far  more  pernicious  to  our  pleasures  which 
has  succeeded  to  it,  the  exclusive  and  all-devouring 

275 


THE   ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

drama  of  common  life;  where  the  moral  point  is 
everything ;  where,  instead  of  the  fictitious  half- be- 
lieved personages  of  the  stage  (the  phantoms  of  old 
comedy),  we  recognise  ourselves,  our  brothers,  aunts, 
kinsfolk,  allies,  patrons,  enemies, — the  same  as  in 
life, — with  an  interest  in  what  is  going  on  so  hearty 
and  substantial,  that  we  cannot  afford  our  moral 
judgment,  in  its  deepest  and  most  vital  results,  to 
compromise  or  slumber  for  a  moment.  What  is 
theix  transacting,  by  no  modification  is  made  to  af- 
fect us  in  any  other  manner  than  the  same  events 
or  characters  would  do  in  our  relationships  of  life. 
We  carry  our  fire-side  concerns  to  the  theatre  with 
us.  We  do  not  go  thither  like  our  ancestors,  to  es- 
cape from  the  pressure  of  reality,  so  much  as  to 
confirm  our  experience  of  it;  to  make  assurance 
double,  and  take  a  bond  of  fate.  We  must  live  our 
toilsome  lives  twice  over,  as  it  was  the  mournful 
privilege  of  Ulysses  to  descend  twice  to  the  shades. 
All  that  neutral  ground  of  character,  which  stood 
between  vice  and  virtue ;  or  which  in  fact  was  indif- 
ferent to  neither,  where  neither  properly  was  called 
in  question ;  that  happy  breathing-place  from  the 
burthen  of  a  perpetual  moral  questioning — the 
sanctuary  and  quiet  Alsatia  of  hunted  casuistry — 
is  broken  up  and  disfranchised,  as  injurious  to  the 
interests  of  society.  The  privileges  of  the  place  are 
taken  away  by  law.  We  dare  not  dally  with  images, 
or  names,  of  wrong.  We  bark  like  foolish  dogs  at 
shadows.  We  dread  infection  from  the  scenic  repre- 
276 


ON   ARTIFICIAL   COMEDY 

sentation  of  disorder,  and  fear  a  painted  pustule.  In 
our  anxiety  that  our  morality  should  not  take  cold, 
we  wrap  it  up  in  a  great  blanket  surtout  of  precau- 
tion against  the  breeze  and  sunshine. 

I  confess  for  myself  that  (with  no  great  delin- 
quencies to  answer  for)  I  am  glad  for  a  season  to 
take  an  airing  beyond  the  diocese  of  the  strict  con- 
science,— not  to  live  always  in  the  precincts  of  the 
law  courts, — but  now  and  then,  for  a  dream- while 
or  so,  to  imagine  a  world  with  no  meddling  restric- 
tions— to  get  into  recesses,  whither  the  hunter  can- 
not follow  me — 

— Secret  shades 
Of  woody  Ida's  inmost  grove. 
While  yet  there  was  no  fear  of  Jove. 

I  come  back  to  my  cage  and  my  restraint  the 
fresher  and  more  healthy  for  it.  I  wear  my  shackles 
more  contentedly  for  having  respired  the  breath 
of  an  imaginary  freedom.  I  do  not  know  how  it  is 
with  others,  but  I  feel  the  better  always  for  the 
perusal  of  one  of  Congreve's — nay,  why  should  I 
not  add  even  of  Wycherley's — comedies.  I  am  the 
gayer  at  least  for  it;  and  I  could  never  connect 
those  sports  of  a  witty  fancy  in  any  shape  with  any 
result  to  be  drawn  from  them  to  imitation  in  real 
life.  They  are  a  world  of  themselves  almost  as  much 
as  fairy  land.  Take  one  of  their  characters,  male  or 
female  (with  few  exceptions  they  are  alike),  and 
place  it  in  a  modem  play,  and  my  n  irtuous  indig- 

m 


THE   ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

nation  shall  rise  against  the  profligate  wretch  as 
warmly  as  the  Catos  of  the  pit  could  desire;  be- 
cause in  a  modern  play  I  am  to  judge  of  the  right 
and  the  wrong.  The  standard  of  police  is  the  mea- 
sure of  political  justice.  The  atmosphere  will  blight 
it ;  it  cannot  live  here.  It  has  got  into  a  moral  world, 
where  it  has  no  business,  from  which  it  must  needs 
fall  headlong;  as  dizzy,  and  incapable  of  making  a 
stand,  as  a  Swedenborgian  bad  spirit  that  has  wan- 
dered unawares  into  the  sphere  of  one  of  his  Good 
Men,  or  Angels.  But  in  its  own  world  do  we  feel 
the  creature  is  so  very  bad? — The  Fainalls  and  the 
Mirabels,  the  Dorimants  and  the  Lady  Touchwoods, 
in  their  own  sphere,  do  not  offend  my  moral  sense ; 
in  fact,  they  do  not  appeal  to  it  at  all.  They  seem 
engaged  in  their  proper  element.  They  break 
through  no  laws  or  conscientious  restraints.  They 
know  of  none.  They  have  got  out  of  Christendom 
into  the  land — what  shall  I  call  it? — of  cuckoldry 
— the  Utopia  of  gallantry,  where  pleasure  is  duty, 
and  the  manners  perfect  freedom.  It  is  altogether  a 
speculative  scene  of  things,  which  has  no  reference 
whatever  to  the  world  that  is.  No  good  person  can 
be  justly  offended  as  a  spectator,  because  no  good 
person  suffers  on  the  stage.  Judged  morally,  every 
character  in  these  plays — the  few  exceptions  only 
are  mistakes — is  alike  essentially  vain  and  worthless. 
The  great  art  of  Congreve  is  especially  shown  in 
this,  that  he  has  entirely  excluded  from  his  scenes 
— some  little  generosities  in  the  part  of  Angelica 
278 


ON   ARTIFICIAL   COMEDY 

perhaps  excepted — not  only  anything  like  a  fault- 
less character,  but  any  pretensions  to  goodness  or 
good  feelings  whatsoever.  Whether  he  did  this  de- 
signedly, or  instinctively,  the  effect  is  as  happy  as 
the  design  (if  design)  was  bold.  I  used  to  wonder  at 
the  strange  power  which  his  Way  of  the  World  in 
particular  possesses  of  interesting  you  all  along  in 
the  pursuits  of  characters,  for  whom  you  absolutely 
care  nothing — for  you  neither  hate  nor  love  his  per- 
sonages— and  I  think  it  is  owing  to  this  very  indif- 
ference for  any,  that  you  endure  the  whole.  He  has 
spread  a  privation  of  moral  light,  I  will  call  it, 
rather  than  by  the  ugly  name  of  palpable  darkness, 
over  his  creations;  and  his  shadows  flit  before  you 
without  distinction  or  preference.  Had  he  intro- 
duced a  good  character,  a  single  gush  of  moral  feel- 
ing, a  revulsion  of  the  judgment  to  actual  life  and 
actual  duties,  the  impertinent  Goshen  would  have 
only  lighted  to  the  discovery  of  deformities,  which 
now  are  none,  because  we  think  them  none. 

Translated  into  real  life,  the  characters  of  his,  and 
his  friend  Wycherley's  dramas,  are  profligates  and 
strumpets, — the  business  of  their  brief  existence, 
the  undivided  pursuit  of  lawless  gallantry.  No  other 
spring  of  action,  or  possible  motive  of  conduct,  is 
recognised ;  principles  which,  universally  acted  upon, 
must  reduce  this  frame  of  things  to  a  chaos.  But  we 
do  them  wrong  in  so  translating  them.  No  sudi  ef- 
fects are  produced,  in  their  world.  When  we  are 
among  them,  we  are  amongst  a  chaotic  people.  We 

279 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

are  not  to  judge  them  by  our  usages.  No  reverend 
institutions  are  insulted  by  their  proceedings — for 
they  have  none  among  them.  No  peace  of  famiUes 
is  violated — for  no  family  ties  exist  among  them. 
No  purity  of  the  marriage  bed  is  stained — for  none 
is  supposed  to  have  a  being.  No  deep  affections 
are  disquieted,  no  holy  wedlock  bands  are  snapped 
asunder — for  affection's  depth  and  wedded  faith  are 
not  of  the  growth  of  that  soil.  There  is  neither  right 
nor  wrong, — gratitude  or  its  opposite, — claim  or 
duty, — paternity  or  sonship.  Of  what  consequence 
is  it  to  Virtue,  or  how  is  she  at  all  concerned  about 
it,  whether  Sir  Simon  or  Dapperwit  steal  away  Miss 
Martha ;  or  who  is  the  father  of  Lord  Froth's  or  Sir 
Paul  Pliant's  children  ? 

The  whole  is  a  passing  pageant,  where  we  should 
sit  as  unconcerned  at  the  issues,  for  life  or  death, 
as  at  the  battle  of  the  frogs  and  mice.  But,  like 
Don  Quixote,  we  take  part  against  the  puppets, 
and  quite  as  impertinently.  We  dare  not  contem- 
plate an  Atlantis,  a  scheme,  out  of  which  our  cox- 
combical moral  sense  is  for  a  little  transitory  ease 
excluded.  We  have  not  the  courage  to  imagine 
a  state  of  things  for  which  there  is  neither  reward 
nor  punishment.  We  cling  to  the  painful  necessi- 
ties of  shame  and  blame.  We  would  indict  our  very 
dreams. 

Amidst  the  mortifying  circumstances  attendant 
upon  growing  old,  it  is  something  to  have  seen  the 
School  for  Scandal  in  its  glory.  This  comedy  grew 
280 


ON   ARTIFICIAL   COMEDY 

out  of  Congreve  and  Wycherley,  but  gathered  some 
allays  of  the  sentimental  comedy  which  followed 
theirs.  It  is  impossible  that  it  should  be  now  acted, 
though  it  continues,  at  long  intervals,  to  be  an- 
nounced in  the  bills.  Its  hero,  when  Palmer  played 
it  at  least,  was  Joseph  Surface.  When  I  remember 
the  gay  boldness,  the  graceful  solemn  plausibility, 
the  measured  step,  the  insinuating  voice — to  ex- 
press it  in  a  word — the  downright  acted  villany  of 
the  part,  so  different  from  the  pressure  of  conscious 
actual  wickedness, — the  hypocritical  assumption  of 
hypocrisy, — which  made  Jack  so  deservedly  a  fa- 
vourite in  that  character,  I  must  needs  conclude 
the  present  generation  of  playgoers  more  virtuous 
than  myself,  or  more  dense.  I  freely  confess  that  he 
divided  the  palm  with  me  with  his  better  brother; 
that,  in  fact,  I  Mked  him  quite  as  well.  Not  but 
there  are  passages, — like  that,  for  instance,  where 
Joseph  is  made  to  refuse  a  pittance  to  a  poor  re- 
lation,— incongruities  which  Sheridan  was  forced 
upon  by  the  attempt  to  join  the  artificial  with  tlie 
sentimental  comedy,  either  of  which  must  destroy 
the  other — but  over  these  obstructions  Jack's  man- 
ner floated  him  so  lightly,  that  a  refusal  from  him 
no  more  shocked  you,  than  the  easy  compliance  of 
Charles  gave  you  in  reality  any  pleasure;  you  got 
over  the  paltry  question  as  quickly  as  you  could,  to 
get  back  into  the  regions  of  pure  comedy,  where  no 
cold  moral  reigns.  The  higlily  artificial  manner  of 
Palmer  in  this  character  counteracted  every  disa- 

281 


THE  ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

greeable  impression  which  you  might  have  received 
from  the  contrast,  supposing  them  real,  between  the 
two  brothers.  You  did  not  believe  in  Joseph  with 
the  same  faith  with  which  you  believed  in  Charles. 
The  latter  was  a  pleasant  reahty,  the  former  a  no 
less  pleasant  poetical  foil  to  it.  The  comedy,  I  have 
said,  is  incongruous;  a  mixture  of  Congreve  with 
sentimental  incompatibilities;  the  gaiety  upon  the 
whole  is  buoyant;  but  it  required  the  consummate 
art  of  Palmer  to  reconcile  the  discordant  elements. 
A  player  with  Jack's  talents,  if  we  had  one  now, 
would  not  dare  to  do  the  part  in  the  same  man- 
ner. He  would  instinctively  avoid  every  turn  which 
might  tend  to  unrealise,  and  so  to  make  the  char- 
acter fascinating.  He  must  take  his  cue  from  his 
spectators,  who  would  expect  a  bad  man  and  a  good 
man  as  rigidly  opposed  to  each  other  as  the  death- 
beds of  those  geniuses  are  contrasted  in  the  prints, 
which  I  am  sorry  to  say  have  disappeared  from  the 
windows  of  my  old  friend  Carrington  Bowles,  of 
St.  Paul's  Church-yard  memory — (an  exhibition  as 
venerable  as  the  adjacent  cathedral,  and  almost  co- 
eval) of  the  bad  and  good  man  at  the  hour  of  death; 
where  the  ghastly  apprehensions  of  the  former, — 
and  truly  the  grim  phantom  with  his  reality  of  a 
toasting-fork  is  not  to  be  despised, — so  finely  con- 
trast with  the  meek  complacent  kissing  of  the  rod,  — 
taking  it  in  like  honey  and  butter, — with  which  the 
latter  submits  to  the  scythe  of  the  gentle  bleeder. 
Time,  who  wields  his  lancet  with  the  apprehensive 
282 


ON  ARTIFICIAL  COMEDY 

finger  of  a  popular  young  ladies'  surgeon.  What 
flesh,  like  loving  grass,  would  not  covet  to  meet 
half-way  the  stroke  of  such  a  delicate  mower? — 
John  Palmer  was  twice  an  actor  in  this  exquisite 
part.  He  was  playing  to  you  all  the  while  that  he 
was  playing  upon  Sir  Peter  and  his  lady.  You  had 
the  first  intimation  of  a  sentiment  before  it  was  on 
his  hps.  His  altered  voice  was  meant  to  you,  and 
you  were  to  suppose  that  his  fictitious  co-flutterers 
on  the  stage  perceived  nothing  at  all  of  it.  What 
was  it  to  you  if  that  half  reality,  the  husband,  was 
overreached  by  the  puppetry — or  the  thin  thing 
(Lady  Teazle's  reputation)  was  persuaded  it  was 
dying  of  a  plethory?  The  fortunes  of  Othello  and 
Desdemona  were  not  concerned  in  it.  Poor  Jack 
has  passed  from  the  stage  in  good  time,  that  he  did 
not  live  to  this  our  age  of  seriousness.  The  pleasant 
old  Teazle  King,  too,  is  gone  in  good  time.  His 
manner  would  scarce  have  passed  current  in  our 
day.  We  must  love  or  hate — acquit  or  condemn — 
censure  or  pity — exert  our  detestable  coxcombry 
of  moral  judgment  upon  everything.  Joseph  Sur- 
face, to  go  down  now,  must  be  a  downright  revolt- 
ing villain — no  compromise — his  first  appearance 
must  shock  and  give  horror — his  specious  plausi- 
bilities, which  the  pleasurable  faculties  of  our  fa- 
thers welcomed  with  such  hearty  greetings,  know- 
ing that  no  harm  (dramatic  harm  even)  could  come, 
or  was  meant  to  come,  of  them,  must  inspire  a  cold 
and  kilhng  aversion.  Charles  (the  real  canting  pcr- 

283 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

son  of  the  scene — for  the  hypocrisy  of  Joseph  has 
its  ulterior  legitimate  ends,  but  his  brother's  pro- 
fessions of  a  good  heart  centre  in  downright  self- 
satisfaction)  must  be  loved,  and  Joseph  hated.  To 
balance  one  disagreeable  reality  with  another,  Sir 
Peter  Teazle  must  be  no  longer  the  comic  idea  of 
a  fretful  old  bachelor  bridegroom,  whose  teasings 
(while  King  acted  it)  were  evidently  as  much  played 
off  at  you,  as  they  were  meant  to  concern  anybody 
on  the  stage, — he  must  be  a  real  person,  capable 
in  law  of  sustaining  an  injury — a  person  towards 
whom  duties  are  to  be  acknowledged — the  genuine 
crim.  con.  antagonist  of  the  villainous  seducer  Jo- 
seph. To  realise  him  more,  his  sufferings  under  his 
unfortunate  match  must  have  the  downright  pun- 
gency of  life — must  (or  should)  make  you  not  mirth- 
ful but  uncomfortable,  just  as  the  same  predicament 
would  move  you  in  a  neighbour  or  old  friend. 

The  delicious  scenes  which  give  the  play  its  name 
and  zest,  must  affect  you  in  the  same  serious  man- 
ner as  if  you  heard  the  reputation  of  a  dear  female 
friend  attacked  in  your  real  presence.  Crabtree  and 
Sir  Benjamin  —  those  poor  snakes  that  live  but 
in  the  sunshine  of  your  mirth — must  be  ripened 
by  this  hot-bed  process  of  reahzation  into  asps  or 
amphisbsenas ;  and  Mrs.  Candour  —  O!  frightful! 
— become  a  hooded  serpent.  O!  who  that  remem- 
bers Parsons  and  Dodd — the  wasp  and  butterfly 
of  the  School  for  Scandal — in  those  two  charac- 
ters; and  charming  natural  Miss  Pope,  the  perfect 
284 


ON   ARTIFICIAL   COMEDY 

gentlewoman  as  distinguished  from  the  fine  lady  of 
comedy,  in  this  latter  part — would  forego  the  true 
scenic  delight — the  escape  from  life — the  obhv- 
ion  of  consequences — the  hohday  barring  out  of 
the  pedant  Reflection — those  Saturnalia  of  two  or 
three  brief  hours,  well  won  from  the  world — to  sit 
instead  at  one  of  our  modern  plays — to  have  his 
coward  conscience  (that  forsooth  must  not  be  left 
for  a  moment)  stimulated  with  perpetual  appeals 
— dulled  rather,  and  blunted,  as  a  faculty  without 
repose  must  be — and  his  moral  vanity  pampered 
with  images  of  notional  justice,  notional  benefi- 
cence, lives  saved  without  the  spectator's  risk,  and 
fortunes  given  away  that  cost  the  author  notliing  ? 
No  piece  was,  perhaps,  ever  so  completely  cast 
in  all  its  parts  as  this  manager's  comedy.  Miss  Far- 
ren  had  succeeded  to  Mrs.  Abington  in  Lady  Teazle ; 
and  Smith,  the  original  Charles,  had  retired  when  I 
first  saw  it.  The  rest  of  the  characters,  with  very 
slight  exceptions,  remained.  I  remember  it  was  then 
the  fashion  to  cry  down  John  Kemble,  who  took 
the  part  of  Charles  after  Smith ;  but,  I  thought,  very 
unjustly.  Smith,  I  fancy,  was  more  airy,  and  took 
the  eye  with  a  certain  gaiety  of  person.  He  brought 
with  him  no  sombre  recollections  of  tragedy.  He 
had  not  to  expiate  the  fault  of  having  pleased  be- 
forehand in  lofty  declamation.  He  had  no  sins  of 
Hamlet  or  of  Richard  to  atone  for.  His  failure  in 
these  parts  was  a  passport  to  success  in  one  of  so 
opposite  a  tendency.  But,  as  far  as  I  could  judge, 

285 


THE   ESSAYS   OF  ELIA 

the  weighty  sense  of  Kemble  made  up  for  more 
personal  incapacity  than  he  had  to  answer  for.  His 
harshest  tones  in  this  part  came  steeped  and  dulci- 
fied in  good  humour.  He  made  his  defects  a  grace. 
His  exact  declamatory  manner,  as  he  managed  it, 
only  served  to  convey  the  points  of  his  dialogue 
with  more  precision.  It  seemed  to  head  the  shafts 
to  carry  them  deeper.  Not  one  of  his  sparkling  sen- 
tences was  lost.  I  remember  minutely  how  he  de- 
livered each  in  succession,  and  cannot  by  any  effort 
imagine  how  any  of  them  could  be  altered  for  the 
better.  No  man  could  deliver  brilliant  dialogue — 
the  dialogue  of  Congreve  or  of  Wycherley — because 
none  understood  it — half  so  well  as  John  Kemble. 
His  Valentine,  in  Love  for  Love,,  was,  to  my  recol- 
lection, faultless.  He  flagged  sometimes  in  the  in- 
tervals of  tragic  passion.  He  would  slumber  over  the 
level  parts  of  an  heroic  character.  His  Macbeth  has 
been  known  to  nod.  But  he  always  seemed  to  me 
to  be  particularly  alive  to  pointed  and  witty  dia- 
logue. The  relaxing  levities  of  tragedy  have  not  been 
touched  by  any  since  him — the  playful  court-bred 
spirit  in  which  he  condescended  to  the  players  in 
Hamlet — the  sportive  relief  which  he  threw  into 
the  darker  shades  of  Richard — disappeared  with 
him.  He  had  his  sluggish  moods,  his  torpors — but 
they  were  the  halting-stones  and  resting-place  of  his 
tragedy — politic  savings,  and  fetches  of  the  breath 
— husbandry  of  the  lungs,  where  nature  pointed 
him  to  be  an  economist  —  rather,  I  think,  than 
286 


ON   ARTIFICIAL   COMEDY 

errors  of  the  judgment.  They  were,  at  worst,  less 
painful  than  the  eternal  tormenting  unappeasable 
vigilance,  —  the  "lidless  dragon  eyes,"  of  present 
fashionable  tragedy. 


«T 


ON   THE   ACTING   OF   MUNDEN 

NOT  many  nights  ago  I  had  come  home  from 
seeing  this  extraordinary  performer  in  Cockle- 
top  ;  and  when  I  retired  to  my  pillow,  his  whimsical 
image  still  stuck  by  me,  in  a  manner  as  to  threaten 
sleep.  In  vain  I  tried  to  divest  myself  of  it,  by 
conjuring  up  the  most  opposite  associations.  I  re- 
solved to  be  serious.  I  raised  up  the  gravest  topics 
of  life;  private  misery,  public  calamity.  All  would 
not  do : 

— There  the  antic  sate 
Mocking  our  state 

his  queer  visnomy — his  bewildering  costume — all 
the  strange  things  which  he  had  raked  together — 
his  serpentine  rod  swagging  about  in  his  pocket — 
Cleopatra's  tear,  and  the  rest  of  his  relics — O'Keefe 's 
wild  farce,  and  his  wilder  commentary — till  the 
passion  of  laughter,  like  grief  in  excess,  relieved  it- 
self by  its  own  weight,  inviting  the  sleep  which  in 
the  first  instance  it  had  driven  away. 

But  I  was  not  to  escape  so  easily.  No  sooner  did 
I  fall  into  slumbers,  than  the  same  image,  only 
more  perplexing,  assailed  me  in  the  shape  of  dreams. 
Not  one  Munden,  but  five  hundred,  were  dancing 
before  me,  like  the  faces  which,  whether  you  will  or 
no,  come  when  you  have  been  taking  opium — all 
the  strange  combinations,  which  this  strangest  of  all 
^88 


ON  THE   ACTING  OF   MUNDEN 

strange  mortals  ever  shot  his  proper  countenance 
mto,  from  the  day  he  came  commissioned  to  dry  up 
the  tears  of  the  town  for  the  loss  of  the  now  almost 
forgotten  Edwin.  O  for  the  power  of  the  pencil  to 
have  fixed  them  when  I  awoke!  A  season  or  two 
since,  there  was  exhibited  a  Hogarth  gallery.  I  do 
not  see  why  there  should  not  be  a  Munden  gallery. 
In  richness  and  variety,  the  latter  would  not  fall  far 
short  of  the  former. 

There  is  one  face  of  Farley,  one  face  of  Knight, 
one  (but  what  a  one  it  is!)  of  Liston;  but  Munden 
has  none  that  you  can  properly  pin  down,  and  call 
his.  When  you  think  he  has  exhausted  his  battery 
of  looks,  in  unaccountable  warfare  with  your  gravity, 
suddenly  he  sprouts  out  an  entirely  new  set  of  fea- 
tures, like  Hydra.  He  is  not  one,  but  legion ;  not  so 
much  a  comedian,  as  a  company.  If  his  name  could 
be  multiplied  like  his  countenance,  it  might  fill  a 
play-bill.  He,  and  he  alone,  literally  makes  faces: 
applied  to  any  other  person,  the  phrase  is  a  mere 
figure,  denoting  certain  modifications  of  the  human 
countenance.  Out  of  some  invisible  wardrobe  he 
dips  for  faces,  as  his  friend  Suett  used  for  wigs,  and 
fetches  them  out  as  easily.  I  should  not  be  sur- 
prised to  see  him  some  day  put  out  the  head  of  a 
river-horse :  or  come  forth  a  pewitt,  or  lapwing,  some 
feathered  metamorphosis. 

I  have  seen  this  gifted  actor  in  Sir  Christopher 
Curry — in  old  Dornton — diffuse  a  glow  of  senti- 
ment which  has  made  the  pulse  of  a  crowded  then 

£89 


THE   ESSAYS   OF   ELIA 

tre  beat  like  that  of  one  man ;  when  he  has  come  in 
aid  of  the  pulpit,  doing  good  to  the  moral  heart  of 
a  people.  I  have  seen  some  faint  approaches  to  this 
sort  of  excellence  in  other  players.  But  in  the  grand 
grotesque  of  farce,  Munden  stands  out  as  single  and 
unaccompanied  as  Hogarth.  Hogarth,  strange  to 
tell,  had  no  followers.  The  school  of  Munden  be- 
gan, and  must  end,  with  himself. 

Can  any  man  wonder,  like  him  ?  can  any  man  see 
ghosts i  hke  him?  or  Jight  with  his  own  shadow — 
"sessa" — as  he  does  in  that  strangely-neglected 
thing,  the  Cobbler  of  Preston — where  his  alterna- 
tions from  the  Cobbler  to  the  Magnifico,  and  from 
the  Magnifico  to  the  Cobbler,  keep  the  brain  of  the 
spectator  in  as  wild  a  ferment,  as  if  some  Arabian 
Night  were  being  acted  before  him.  Who  like  him 
can  throw,  or  ever  attempted  to  throw,  a  preter- 
natural interest  over  the  commonest  daily-life  ob- 
jects? A  table  or  a  joint-stool,  in  his  conception, 
rises  into  a  dignity  equivalent  to  Cassiopeia's  chair. 
It  is  invested  with  constellatory  importance.  You 
could  not  speak  of  it  with  more  deference,  if  it  were 
mounted  into  the  firmament.  A  beggar  in  the  hands 
of  Michael  Angelo,  says  Fuseli,  rose  the  Patriarch 
of  Poverty.  So  the  gusto  of  Munden  antiquates 
and  ennobles  what  it  touches.  His  pots  and  his 
ladles  are  as  grand  and  primal  as  the  seething-pots 
and  hooks  seen  in  old  prophetic  vision.  A  tub  of 
butter,  contemplated  by  him,  amounts  to  a  Pla- 
tonic idea.  He  understands  a  leg  of  mutton  in  its 
290 


ON   THE   ACTING   OF   MUNDEN 

quiddity.  He  stands  wondering,  amid  the  common- 
place materials  of  life,  like  primaeval  man  with  the 
sun  and  stars  about  him. 


SOI 


NOTES 


NOTES 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  SOUTH-SEA  HOUSE 

("London  Magazine,""  August  1820) 

CHARLES  LAMB  left  Chrises  Hospital  in  the  year  1789, 
at  the  age  of  fourteen,  and  at  some  date  within  the  next 
two  years  he  obtained  a  situation  in  the  South-Sea  House.  His 
father''s  employer,  Samuel  Salt,  the  Bencher  of  the  Inner  Tem- 
ple, was  a  Deputy-Governor  of  the  South-Sea  House  at  the 
time,  and  it  was  doubtless  by  the  influence  of  this  kind  friend 
that  the  appointment  was  obtained.  Charles's  elder  brother, 
John,  was  already  a  clerk  in  the  office.  In  the  Royal  Calendar 
for  1792  John  LamVs  name  appears  as  holding  the  position 
of  Deputy-Accountant.  Other  of  the  names  mentioned  by 
Lamb  in  this  Essay  are  also  found  in  the  official  records  of 
the  day — John  Tipp,  on  whose  promotion  to  the  office  of 
Accountant  (as  "John  Tipp,  Esq."),  John  Lamb  succeeded 
to  the  post  just  mentioned;  W.  Evans,  Deputy-Cashier  in 
1791;  Thomas  Tame,  Deputy-Cashier  in  1793;  and  Richard 
Plumer,  Deputy-Secretary  in  1800.  Lamb's  fondness  for  gra- 
tuitous mystification  is  thus  curiously  illustrated  in  the  in- 
sinuation towards  the  close  of  the  Essay  that  the  names  he 
has  recorded  are  fictitious,  after  all.  Lamb's  old  colleague, 
Elia,  whose  name  he  borrowed,  has  not  (as  far  as  I  am  aware) 
been  yet  traced  in  the  annals  of  the  office.  But  he  probably 
held,  like  Lamb  himself,  a  very  subordinate  position. 

A  full  account  of  the  famous  South-Sea  Bubble  will  be 
found  in  Lord  Stanhope's  History,  and  also  in  Chambers's 
Book  of  Days.  For  an  account  of  the  constitution  of  the 
Company  at  the  end  of  the  last  century,  Hughson's  Walks 
through  London  (1805)  may  be  consulted.  He  says— "Not- 
withstanding the  terms  of  the  charter  by  which  we  are  to 

295 


NOTES 

look  upon  this  Company  as  merchants,  it  is  observable  that 
they  never  carried  on  any  considerable  trade,  and  now  they 
have  no  trade.  They  only  receive  interest  for  their  capital 
which  is  in  the  hands  of  the  Government,  and  d£'8000  out 
of  the  Treasury  towards  the  expense  attending  the  manage- 
ment of  their  affairs,  which  is  done  by  a  Governor,  Sub-Gov- 
ernor, Deputy-Governor,  and  twenty-one  Directors  annually 
chosen  on  the  6th  of  February  by  a  majority  of  votes."  Pen- 
nant (who  is  refeiTed  to  in  this  Essay,  and  wrote  in  1790) 
says — "In  this  (Threadneedle)  Street  also  stands  the  South- 
Sea  House,  the  place  in  which  the  Company  did  business, 
when  it  had  any  to  transact." 

Henry  Man^  the  Wit,  etc. 

The  two  "forgotten  volumes" — "Miscellaneous  Works  in 
Verse  and  Prose  of  the  late  Henri/  Man.  London,  1802"" — are 
now  before  me.  They  contain  a  variety  of  light  and  amusing 
papers  in  verse  and  prose.  The  humour  of  them,  however, 
is  naturally  still  more  out  of  date  now  than  in  Lamb's  day. 
One  of  the  epigrams  found  there  may  be  said  to  have  become 
classical, — that  upon  the  two  Earls  (Spencer  and  Sandwich) 
who  invented  respectively  "half  a  coat"  and  "half  a  dinner." 
Henry  Man  was  Deputy-Secretary  in  1793. 

Rattle-headed  Plumer. 

Lamb  had  a  special  interest  in  the  family  bearing  this  name, 
because  his  grandmother,  Mary  Field,  was  for  more  than  half 
a  century  housekeeper  at  the  Dower  House  of  the  family, 
Blakesware  in  Hertfordshire.  The  present  Mr.  Plumer,  of 
Allerton,  Totness,  a  grandson  of  Richard  Plumer  of  the 
South-Sea  House,  by  no  means  acquiesces  in  the  tradition 
here  recorded  as  to  his  grandfather's  origin.  He  believes  that 
though  the  links  are  missing,  Richard  Plumer  was  descended 
in  regular  line  from  the  Baronet,  Sir  Walter  Plumer,  who 
died  at  the  end  of  the  seventeenth  century.  Lamb's  memoiy 
296 


NOTES 

has  failed  him  here  in  one  respect.  The  "Bachelor  Uncle," 
Walter  Plumer,  uncle  of  William  Plumer  of  Blakesware,  was 
most  certainly  not  a  bachelor  (see  the  Pedigree  of  the  family 
in  Cussans'  Hertfordshire ).  Lamb  is  further  inaccurate  as  to 
the  connection  of  this  Walter  Plumer  with  the  affair  of  the 
franks.  A  reference  to  Johnson's  Life  of  Cave  will  show  that 
it  was  Cave,  and  not  Plumer,  who  was  summoned  before  the 
House  of  Commons.  Walter  Plumer,  member  for  Aldborough 
and  Appleby,  had  given  a  frank  to  the  Duchess  of  Marl- 
borough, which  had  been  challenged  by  Cave,  who  held  the 
post  of  Clerk  of  the  Franks  in  the  House  of  Commons.  For 
this,  Cave  was  cited  before  the  House,  as  a  Breach  of  Privilege. 
In  the  passage  on  John  Tipp,  Lamb,  speaking  of  his  fine 
suite  of  rooms  in  Threadneedle  Street,  adds — "I  know  not 
who  is  the  occupier  of  them  now."  When  the  Essay  first 
appeared  in  the  London  Magazine,  the  note  in  brackets  was 
appended.  Thus  we  learn  that  John  Lamb  was  still,  in  1820, 
occupying  rooms  in  the  old  building. 

Mild,  child-like,  pastoral  M . 

"Maynard,  hang'd  himself"  (Lamb's  Key).  Mr.  T.  Maynard 
was  chief  clerk  of  the  Old  Annuities  and  Three  per  Cents 
from  1788  to  1793.  His  name  does  not  appear  in  the  alma- 
nacs of  the  day  after  this  date. 

OXFORD   IN  THE  VACATION 

("London  Magazine,"  October  1820) 

LAMB  was  fond  of  spending  his  annual  holiday  in  one  or 
J  other  of  the  great  university  towns,  more  often  perhaps 
in  Cambridge.  It  was  on  one  such  visit,  it  will  be  remembered, 
that  Charles  and  Mary  first  made  the  acquaintance  of  little 
Emma  Isola.  On  its  first  appearance  in  the  London,  the  paper 
wa»  dated  "August  5,  1820.  From  my  rooms  facing  the  Bod- 

297 


NOTES 

leian.^*  A  sonnet  written  a  year  before  at  Cambridge,  tells  of 
the  charm  that  University  associations  had  for  one  who  had 
been  debarred  through  infirmity  of  health  and  poverty  from 
a  university  education:  — 

"1  was  not  trained  in  Academic  bowers. 
And  to  those  learned  streams  I  nothing  owe 
Which  copious  from  those  twin  fair  founts  do  flow ; 
Mine  have  been  anything  but  studious  hours. 
Yet  can  I  fancy,  wandering  'mid  thy  towers. 
Myself  a  nursling,  Granta,  of  thy  lap ; 
My  brow  seems  tightening  with  the  Doctor's  cap. 
And  I  walk  gowned;  feel  unusual  powers. 
Strange  forms  of  logic  clothe  my  admiring  speech. 
Old  Ramus'  ghost  is  busy  at  my  brain ; 
And  my  skull  teems  with  notions  infinite. 
Be  still,  ye  reeds  of  Camus,  while  I  teach 
Truths  which  transcend  the  searching  schoolmen's  vein, 
And  half  had  staggered  that  stout  Stagirite !" 

**  Andrew  and  John,  men  famous  in  old  times" 
Quoted,  quite  at  random,  from  Paradise  Regained,  ii.  7. 

Baskett  Prayer  Book. 

John  Baskett,  King's  Printer  in  the  early  years  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century.  He  published  a  variety  of  Bibles  and  Prayer- 
books,  including  the  famous  "Vinegar  Bible."" 

G.D. 

George  Dyer  (1755-1841),  educated  at  Christ's  Hospital  and 
Emmanuel  College,  Cambridge.  A  compiler  and  editor  and 
general  worker  for  the  booksellers,  short-sighted,  absent- 
minded,  and  simple,  for  whom  Lamb  had  a  life-long  affection. 
He  compiled,  among  other  books,  a  History  of  the  Univer' 
sity  and  Colleges  of  Cambridge,  and  contributed  the  original 
matter  (preface  excepted)  to  Valpy's  edition  of  the  Classics. 
The  account  of  him  given  by  Crabb  Robinson  in  his  Diary 
well  illustrates  Lamb's  frequent  references  to  this  singular 
^8 


NOTES 

character.  "  He  was  one  of  the  best  creatures,  morally,  that 
ever  breathed.  He  was  the  son  of  a  watchman  in  Wapping, 
and  was  put  to  a  charity  school  by  some  pious  Dissenting 
ladies.  He  afterwards  went  to  Christ's  Hospital,  and  from 
there  was  sent  to  Cambridge.  He  was  a  scholar,  but  to  the 
end  of  his  days  (and  he  lived  to  be  eighty-five)  was  a  book- 
seller's drudge.  He  led  a  life  of  literary  labour  in  poverty. 
He  made  indexes,  corrected  the  press,  and  occasionally  gave 
lessons  in  Latin  and  Greek.  When  an  undergraduate  at 
Cambridge  he  became  a  hearer  of  Robert  Robinson,  and 
consequently  a  Unitarian.  This  closed  the  Church  against 
him,  and  he  never  had  a  fellowship.  .  .  .  He  wrote  one  good 
book — The  Life  of  Robert  Robinson,  which  I  have  heard 
Wordsworth  mention  as  one  of  the  best  works  of  biography 
in  the  language.  .  .  .  Dyer  had  the  kindest  heart  and  simplest 
manners  imaginable.  It  was  literally  the  case  with  him  that 
he  would  give  away  his  last  guinea.  .  .  .  Not  many  years  be- 
fore his  death  he  man-ied  his  laundress,  by  the  advice  of  his 
friends — a  very  worthy  woman.  He  said  to  me  once,  'Mrs. 
Dyer  is  a  woman  of  excellent  natural  sense,  but  she  is  not 
literate.'  That  is,  she  could  neither  read  nor  write.  Dyer  was 
blind  for  a  few  years  before  his  death.  I  used  occasionally  to 
go  on  a  Sunday  morning  to  read  to  him.  .  .  .  After  he  came 
to  London,  Dyer  lived  always  in  some  very  humble  cliambers 
in  Clifford's  Inn,  Fleet  Street." 

Crive  me  Agurs  wish. 

See  the  Book  of  Proverbs  xxx.  10. 

Our  friend  M.'s  in  Bedford  Square. 
M.  was  Basil  Montagu,  Q.  C.,  and  editor  of  Bacon.  Mrs.  M. 
was  of  course  Irving's  "noble  lady,"  so  familiar  to  us  from 
Carlyle's  Reminiscences.  "Pretty  A.  S."  was  Mrs.  Montagu's 
daughter,  Anne  Skepper,  aftenvards  the  wife  of  Mr.  Procter 
(Barry  Cornwall).  In  his  Memoir  of  Lamb,  Mr.  Procter  sig- 

299 


NOTES 

nificantly  remarks  that  he  could  vouch  personally  for  the  truth 
of  this  anecdote  of  Dyer's  absent-mindedness. 

Still  less  have  I  curiosity  to  disturb  the  elder  repose 
ofMSS. 

In  the  London  Magazine  was  appended  the  following  note: 
— "There  is  something  to  me  repugnant  at  any  time  in  writ- 
ten hand.  The  text  never  seems  determinate.  Print  settles  it. 
I  had  thought  of  the  Lycidas  as  of  a  full-grown  beauty — as 
springing  up  with  all  its  parts  absolute — till,  in  an  evil  hour, 
I  was  shown  the  original  copy  of  it,  together  with  the  other 
minor  poems  of  its  author,  in  the  library  of  Trinity,  kept  like 
some  treasure,  to  be  proud  of.  I  wish  they  had  thrown  them 
in  the  Cam,  or  sent  them  after  the  latter  Cantos  of  Spenser, 
into  the  Irish  Channel.  How  it  staggered  me  to  see  the  fine 
things  in  their  ore !  interlined,  corrected!  as  if  their  words  were 
mortal,  alterable,  displaceable  at  pleasure!  as  if  they  might 
have  been  otherwise,  and  just  as  good!  as  if  inspiration  were 
made  up  of  parts,  and  these  fluctuating,  successive,  indifferent! 
I  will  never  go  into  the  workshop  of  any  great  artist  again, 
nor  desire  a  sight  of  his  picture  till  it  is  fairly  off  the  easel : 
no,  not  if  Raphael  were  to  be  alive  again,  and  painting  an- 
other Galatea." 

CHRIST'S   HOSPITAL 

("London  Magazine,""  November  1820) 

THE  first  collected  edition  of  Lamb's  Prose  and  Verse  ap- 
peared in  the  year  1818,  published  by  C.  and  J.  Oilier. 
Among  other  papers  it  contained  one  entitled  Recollections  of 
Chrisfs  Hospital.  The  Essay  was  a  reprint  from  the  Gentle' 
man's  Magazine  for  June  1813,  where  it  originally  owed  its 
appearance  to  an  alleged  abuse  of  the  presentation  system  in 
force  at  the  Blue  Coat  School. 
300 


NOTES 

This  earlier  article  on  Christ's  Hospital  had  been  written  in 
a  serious  and  genuine  vein  of  enthusiasm  for  the  value  and 
dignity  of  the  old  Foundation.  Lamb  now  seems  to  have  re- 
membered that  there  were  other  aspects  of  schoolboy  Hfe 
imder  its  shelter  that  might  be  profitably  dealt  with.  The 
"poor  friendless  boy,"  in  whose  character  he  now  writes,  was 
his  old  schoolfellow  Coleridge,  and  the  general  truth  of  the 
sketch  is  shown  by  Coleridge's  own  reference  to  his  schooldays 
in  the  early  chapters  of  his  Biographia  Literaria.  "In  my 
friendless  wanderings  on  our  leave-days  (for  I  was  an  orphan, 
and  had  scarce  any  connections  in  London)  highly  was  I  de- 
lighted if  any  passenger,  especially  if  he  were  dressed  in  black, 
would  enter  into  conversation  with  me.'" 

Lamb's  love  of  mystification  shows  itself  in  this  Essay  in 
many  forms.  "Sweet  Calne  in  Wiltshire"  is  a  quite  giatuitous 
substitution  for  Ottery  St.  Mary  in  Devonshire,  the  home  after 
which  young  Coleridge  did  actually  yeai'n.  Coleridge  did,  how- 
ever, reside  for  a  time  at  Calne  in  later  life.  Moreover,  as  will 
be  seen,  the  disguise  of  identity  with  Coleridge  is  dropped  al- 
together towards  the  close  of  the  Essay.  The  general  account 
of  the  school  here  given  it  is  interesting  to  compare  with  that 
given  by  Leigh  Hunt  in  his  autobiography. 

Li's  governor  (so  we  called  the  patron  who  presented 
us  to  the  foundation)  lived  in  a  manner  under  his  pa- 
ternal roof. 

It  was  under  Samuel  Salt's  roof  that  John  Lamb  and  his 
family  lived,  and  as  the  presentation  to  Christ's  was  obtained 
from  a  friend  of  Salt's,  Lamb  considers  it  fair  to  speak  of  the 
old  Bencher  as  the  actual  benefactor. 

There  was  one  H . 


Hodges  (Lamb's  Key). 

801 


NOTES 

"  To  feed  our  mind  with  idle  portraiture.'* 
A  line  apparently  extemporised  by  Lamb  as  a  translation 
of  the  passage  in  Virgil  to  which  he  refers,  ^^  animum  pictura 
pascit  inani.^'' 

**'Twas  said 
He  ate  strange  Jlesh" 

As  usual,  a  new  quotation  formed  out  of  Lamb's  general 
recollection  of  an  old  one.  He  had  in  his  mind,  no  doubt,  a 
passage  in  Antony  and  Cleopatra  (Act  I.  Sc.  4) — 

''It  is  reported  thou  didst  eat  strange  flesh 
Which  some  did  die  to  look  on." 

Mr.  Hathaway,  the  then  steward. 
Perry  was  steward  in  Lamb's  day  (see  the  former  Essay  on 
Christ's  Hospital).  Leigh  Hunt  says  of  his  successor: — "The 
name  of  the  steward,  a  thin  stiff  man  of  invincible  formality 
of  demeanour,  admirably  fitted  to  render  encroachment  im- 
possible, was  Hathaway.  We  of  the  grammar  school  used  to 
call  him  'the  Yeoman,"*  on  account  of  Shakspeare  having  mar- 
ried the  daughter  of  a  man  of  that  name,  designated  as  'a 
substantial  yeoman.'" 

The  Rev.  James  Boyer. 

The  Rev.  James  Boyer  became  upper  master  of  Christ's  in 
1777.  For  the  better  side  of  Boyer's  qualifications  as  a  teacher, 
see  Coleridge's  BiograpMa  Literaria,  the  passage  beginning, 
**At  school  I  enjoyed  the  inestimable  advantage  of  a  very  sen- 
sible, though  at  the  same  time  a  very  severe  master."  Else- 
where Coleridge  entirely  confirms  Lamb's  and  Leigh  Hunt's 
accounts  of  Boyer's  violent  temper  and  severe  discipline.  Lamb 
never  reached  the  position  of  Grecian,  but  it  is  the  tradition 
in  Christ's  Hospital  that  he  was  under  Boyer's  instruction 
some  time  before  leaving  school. 

SOS 


NOTES 

The  Rev.  Matthew  Field. 

Some  charming  additional  traits  in  this  character,  entirely 
confirming  Lamb's  account,  will  be  found  in  Leigh  Hunt's 
autobiography.  "A  man  of  a  more  handsome  incompetence 
for  his  situation  perhaps  did  not  exist.  He  came  late  of  a 
morning;  went  away  soon  in  the  afternoon;  and  used  to  walk 
up  and  down,  languidly  bearing  his  cane,  as  if  it  were  a  lily, 
and  hearing  our  eternal  Dominuses  and  As  in  praesentis  with 
an  air  of  ineffable  endurance.  Often  he  did  not  hear  at  all.  It 
was  a  joke  with  us  when  any  of  our  friends  came  to  the  door, 
and  we  asked  his  permission  to  go  to  them,  to  address  him 
with  some  preposterous  question  wide  of  the  mark;  to  which 
he  used  to  assent.  We  would  say,  for  instance,  *Are  you  not  a 
great  fool,  sir.-*'  or  'Isn't  your  daughter  a  pretty  girl.'''  to 
which  he  would  reply,  *  Yes,  child.'  When  he  condescended  to 
hit  us  with  the  cane,  he  made  a  face  as  if  he  were  taking 
physic." 

The  Fortunate  Blue-coat  Boy. 

A  rather  foolish  Romance,  showing  how  a  Blue-coat  Boy  came 
to  many  a  rich  lady  of  rank.  Its  subsidiary  title  is  "  Memoirs 
of  the  Life  and  Happy  Adventures  of  Mr.  Benjamin  Temple- 
man;  Formerly  a  scholar  in  Christ's  Hospital."  By  an  Or- 
phanotropian.  London,  1770. 

TTie  author  of  the  Country  Spectator. 

For  an  amusing  account  of  the  origin  of  this  periodical,  see 

Mozley's  Reminiscences  of  Oriel  College,  vol.  ii.  addenda. 

Dr.  T e. 

Dr.  TroUope,  who  succeeded  Boyer  as  head-ma«tcr. 

Th . 

Thornton  (Lamb's  Key). 

SOS 


NOTES 

Poor  S . 

"Scott,  died  in  Bedlam''  (Lamb's  Kei/), 

Ill-fated  M . 

"Maunde,  dismissed  school"  (Lamb's  Key). 

"Finding  some  of  Edward's  race 
Unhappy,  pass  their  annals  by.'" 
Adapted  from   Matt.    Prior's   Carmen  Saeculare  for  1700 
(stanza  viii.) — 

*' Janus,  mighty  deity. 
Be  kind,  and  as  thy  searching  eye 
Does  our  modern  story  trace. 
Finding  some  of  Stuart's  race 
Unhappy,  pass  their  annals  by." 

C,  V.  Le  G . 

Charles  Valentine  Le  Grice  and  a  younger  brother  of  the 
name  of  Samuel  were  Grecians  and  prominent  members  of 
the  school  in  Lamb's  day.  They  were  from  the  eastern  coun- 
ties. Charles  became  a  clergyman  and  held  a  living  in  Corn- 
wall. Samuel  went  into  the  army,  and  died  in  the  West  Indies. 
It  was  he  who  was  staying  in  London  in  the  autumn  of  1796, 
and  showed  himself  a  true  friend  to  the  Lambs  at  the  season 
of  the  mother's  death.  Lamb  writes  to  Coleridge,  "Sam  Le 
Grice,  who  was  then  in  town,  was  with  me  the  three  or  four 
first  days,  and  was  as  a  brother  to  me;  gave  up  every  hour  of 
his  time  to  the  very  hurting  of  his  health  and  spirits  in  con- 
stant attendance,  and  humouring  my  poor  father;  talked  with 
him,  read  to  him,  played  at  cribbage  with  him."  He  was  a 
"mad  wag,"  according  to  Leigh  Hunt,  who  tells  some  pleas- 
ant anecdotes  of  him,  but  must  have  been  a  good-hearted 
fellow.  "Le  Grice  the  elder  was  a  wag,"  adds  Hunt,  "like  his 
brother,  but  more  staid.  He  went  into  the  church  as  he  ought 
to  do,  and  married  a  rich  widow.  He  published  a  translation, 
abridged,  of  the  celebrated  pastoral  of  Longus;  and  report 
304 


NOTES 

at  school  made  him  the  author  of  a  Httle  anonymous  tract  on 
the  Art  of  Poking  the  FvreP 

"  Which  two  I  behold,''  etc. 

This  is  Fuller's  account  of  the  wit-combats  between  Ben 

Jonson  and  Shakspeare. 

The  Junior  Le  G and  F . 

The  latter  of  these  was  named  Favell,  also  a  Grecian  in  the 
school.  These  two,  according  to  Leigh  Hunt,  when  at  the 
University  wrote  to  the  Duke  of  York  to  ask  for  commis- 
sions in  the  army.  "The  Duke  good-natm-edly  sent  them.'" 
Favell  was  killed  in  the  Peninsula.  His  epitaph  will  be  found 
on  a  tablet  in  Great  St.  Andrew's  Church,  Cambridge: — 
*'Samuel,  a  Captain  in  the  61st  Regiment,  having  been  en- 
gaged in  the  expedition  to  Egypt,  afterwards  served  in  the 
principal  actions  in  the  Peninsula,  and  fell  whilst  heading 
his  men  to  the  charge  in  the  Battle  of  Salamanca,  July  21, 
1812."  We  shall  meet  with  him  again,  under  a  different  ini- 
tial, in  the  essay  on  Poor  Relations. 

THE  TWO  RACES  OF  MEN 
("London  Magazine,"  Decembee  1820) 

Ralph  Bigod. 

John  Fenwick,  editor  of  the  Albion.  See  later  essay  on  Next>»- 

papers  Thirty-Jive  Years  Ago. 

"  To  slacken  virtue,  and  abate  her  edge. 

Than  prompt  her  to  do  aught  may  merit  praise  J* 
Paradise  Regained,  ii.  455. 

Comberbatch, 

More  properly  ComberbacTc,  the  name  adopted  by  Coleridge 
when  he  enlisted  in  the  15th  Light  Dragoons,  in  December 

805 


NOTES 

1793.  He  gave  his  name  to  the  authorities  as  Silas  Titus 
Coraberback,  with  initials  corresponding  to  his  own,  perhaps  in 
order  that  the  marks  on  his  clothes  might  not  raise  suspicion. 
*' Being  at  a  loss  when  suddenly  asked  my  name,""  he  writes, 
"I  answered  Comberback;  and,  verily,  my  habits  were  so  little 
equestrian,  that  my  horse,  I  doubt  not,  was  of  that  opinion." 

Wayward,  spiteful  K, 

Kenney,  the  dramatist,  who  married  a  Frenchwoman  and 

lived  for  some  years  at  Versailles.  Lamb  visited  him  there  in 

1822. 

"  Unworthy  land  to  harbour  such  a  sweetness.^' 

I  have  not  been  able  as  yet  to  trace  this  quotation  to  it« 

source. 

s.  T.  a 

Of  course,  Coleridge  again.  It  is  a  good  illustration  of  LamVs 
fondness  for  puzzling  that,  having  to  instance  his  friend,  he 
indicates  him  three  times  in  the  same  essay  by  a  different 
alias.  Coleridge's  constant  practice  of  enriching  his  own  and 
other's  books  with  these  marginalia  is  well  known. 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE 
("London  Magazine,"  January  1821) 

IT  was  probably  this  paper,  together  with  that  on  Witches 
and  other  Night  Fears,  which  so  shocked  the  moral  sense 
of  Southey,  and  led  to  his  lamenting  publicly,  in  the  pages  of 
the  Quarterly,  the  "absence  of  a  sounder  religious  feeling"  in 
the  Essays  of  Elia.  The  melancholy  scepticism  of  its  strain 
would  appear  to  have  struck  others  at  the  time.  A  graceful 
and  tenderly-remonstrative  copy  of  verses,  suggested  by  it, 
appeared  in  the  London  Magazine  for  August  1821,  signed 
306 


NOTES 

*^Oleny  Lamb  noticed  them  in  a  letter  to  his  publislier  Mr. 
Taylor,  of  July  30.  "You  will  do  me  injustice  if  vou  do  not 
convey  to  the  writer  of  the  beautiful  lines,  which  I  here  re- 
turn you,  my  sense  of  the  extreme  kindness  which  dictates 
them.  Poor  Elia  (call  him  Ellia)  does  not  pretend  to  so  very 
dear  revelations  of  a  future  state  of  being  as  'Olen'  seems 
gifted  with.  He  stumbles  about  dark  mountains  at  best;  but 
he  knows  at  least  how  to  be  thankful  for  this  life,  and  is  too 
thankful,  indeed,  for  certain  relationships  lent  him  here,  not 
to  tremble  for  a  possible  resumption  of  the  gift." 

Lamb  suggests  that  the  verses  were  by  James  Montgomery, 
who  was  on  the  staff  of  the  London  Magazine,  but  he  was  mis- 
taken. "Olen"'''  was  a  nam  de  guerre  of  Charles  A.  Elton,  of 
Clevedon  Court,  Somerset,  author  of  several  volumes  of  poems, 
and  contributions  to  classical  learning.  The  poem  in  the  Lon- 
don was  afterwards  included  by  Mr.  Elton  in  a  volume  "Boy- 
hood and  other  Poems,""  published  in  1835. 

"I  saw  the  skirts  of  the  departing  Year." 
From  the  first  strophe  of  Coleridge's  "Ode  to  the  depart- 
ing Year,""  as  printed  in  the  original  edition  of  his  poems  in 
1796.  He  afterwards  altered  the  line  to 

"I  saw  the  train  of  the  departing  Year." 

"Welcome  the  coming,  speed  the jiarting giicst.'" 
From  Pope's  translation  of  the  Odyssey.  (Book  xv.  line  84.) 

Alice  JV n. 

According  to  Lamb's  Key,  for  Winterton.  In  any  case  tlie 
fictitious  name  by  which  Lamb  chose  to  indicate  the  object 
of  his  boyish  attachment,  whose  form  and  features  he  lovo<l  to 
dwell  on  in  his  early  sonnets,  Rosamund  Gray,  and  aftcrward« 
in  his  essays.  We  shall  meet  her  again  later  on. 


807 


NOTES 

"Sweet  assurance  of  a  look."* 

From  Lamb's  favourite  Elegy  on  Philip  Sidney,  by  Matthew 

Roy  don. 

From  what  have  I  notfallen^  if  the  child  I  remember 
was  indeed  myself. 

The  best  commentary  on  this  passage  is  that  supplied  by 
Lamb's  beautiful  sonnet,  written  as  far  back  as  1795: — 

"  We  were  two  pretty  babes ;  the  youngest  she. 
The  youngest,  and  the  loveliest  far  (I  ween) 
And  Innocence  her  name :  the  time  has  been 
We  two  did  love  each  other's  company ; 
Time  was,  we  two  had  wept  to  have  been  apart. 
But  when,  by  show  of  seeming  good  beguiled, 
I  left  the  garb  and  manners  of  a  child. 
And  my  first  love  for  man's  society. 
Defiling  with  the  world  my  virgin  heart — 
My  loved  companion  dropt  a  tear,  and  fled. 
And  hid  in  deepest  shades  her  awful  head. 
Beloved  !  who  shall  tell  me,  where  thou  art? 
In  what  delicious  Eden  to  be  found? 
That  I  may  seek  thee,  the  wide  world  around.** 


MRS.   BATTLE'S  OPINIONS   ON  WHIST 

("London  Magazine,"  February  1821) 

SEVERAL  of  Lamb's  commentators  have  assumed  Mrs. 
Battle's  identity  with  Mary  Field,  Lamb's  grandmother, 
so  long  resident  with  the  Plumer  family;  the  sole  fact  common 
to  them  being  that  Lamb  represents  Mrs.  Battle  (in  the  essay 
on  Blakesmoor)  as  having  died  at  Blakesware,  where  also  Mrs. 
Field  ended  her  days.  But  any  one  who  will  read,  after  the 
present  essay,  Lamb's  indisputably  genuine  and  serious  verses 
on  Mrs.  Field's  death  (The  Grandame)  will  feel  that  to  have 
transformed  her  into  this  "gentlewoman  bom"  with  the  fine 
308 


NOTES 

"last  century  countenance,""  would  have  been  little  short  of  a 
mauvaise  plaisanterie,  of  which  Lamb  was  not  likely  to  have 
been  guilty.  The  original  of  Mrs.  Battle,  as  I  was  informed 
by  the  late  Mrs.  Lefroy,  in  her  youth  the  intimate  friend  of 
Charles  Lamb  and  of  the  Bumey  family,  was  the  wife  of  Ad- 
miral Burney,  and  like  all  her  family  an  ardent  votary  of 
Whist.  The  details  and  embellishments  of  the  character  were 
Lamb'^s  own,  but  the  outline  of  it,  according  to  my  informant, 
was  recognisable  by  all  Mrs.  Burney's  friends. 

Mr.  Bowles. 

William  Lisle  Bowles  brought  out  his  edition  of  Pope  in  1807. 

Bridget  JElia. 

The  name  by  which  Lamb  always  indicates  his  sister  in  this 

series  of  essays. 

A  CHAPTER  ON  EARS 

("London  Magazine,*'  Maech  1821) 

LAMB'S  indifference  to  music  is  one  of  the  best-known 
J  features  of  his  personality.  Compare  the  admirably  liu- 
morous  verses,  "Free  Thoughts  on  several  Eminent  Com- 
posers," beginning — 

"Some  cry  up  Haydn,  some  Mozart, 
Just  as  the  whim  bites  ;  for  my  part 
I  do  not  care  a  farthing  candle 
For  either  of  them,  or  for  Handel, — 
Cannot  a  man  live  free  and  easy 
Without  admiring  Pergolesi.'' 
Or  through  the  world  with  comfort  go 
That  never  heard  of  Dr.  Blow.?" 

My  friend  A.'s. 

Doubtless  Lamb's  friend,  William  Ayrton,  the  well-know-n 

musical  critic  of  that  day  (1777-1858). 

309 


NOTES 

Party  in  a  parlour^  etc. 

From  a  stanza  in  the  original  draft  of  Wordsworth's  Peter 
Bell.  The  stanza  was  omitted  in  all  editions  of  the  poem  after 
the  first  (1819). 

My  good  Catholic  friend  Nov . 

Vincent  Novello,  the  well-known  organist  and  composer,  fa- 
ther of  Mde.  Clara  Novello  and  Mrs.  Cowden  Clarke  (1781- 
1861). 

— rapt  above  earth. 
And  possess  joys  not  promised  at  my  birth. 

"As  I  thus  sat,  these  and  other  sights  had  so  fully  pos- 
.sessed  my  soul  with  content  that  I  thought,  as  the  poet  has 
happily  expressed  it, — 

I  was  for  that  time  lifted  above  earth ; 

And  possessed  joys  not  promised  at  my  birth.** 

Walton's  Complete  Angler,  Part  I.  chap.  4. 


ALL  FOOLS'  DAY 

("London  Magazine,"  April  1821) 

—  The  crazy  old  church  clock. 

And  the  bewildered  chimes. 

Wordsworth,  "The  Fountain:  a  Conversation.'* 

Ha!  honest  R . 

According  to  Lamb's  Key,  one  Ramsay,  who  kept  the  "Lon- 
don Library""  in  Ludgate  Street. 

Granville  S . 


Granville  Sharp,  the  abolitionist,  died  in  1813. 
310 


NOTES 

Kin^  Pandion,  he  is  dead. 
All  thy  friends  are  lapt  in  lead. 
From  the  verses  on  a  Nightingale,  beginning — 
''As  it  fell  upon  a  day," 

formerly  ascribed  to  Shakspeare,  but  now  known  to  b«  written 
by  Richard  Bamfield, 


A   QUAKERS'  MEETING 

("London  Magazine,""  April  1821) 

"Boreas,  and  Cesias,  and  Argestes  loud," 
Milton,  Paradise  Lost,  x.  699. 

— Sands,  ignoble  things, 

Dropt  from  the  ruined  sides  of  kings. 

From  "Lines  on  the  Tombs  in  Westminster  Abbey,"  by 

Francis  Beaumont. 

How  reverend  is  the  view  of  these  hushed  heads. 
Looking  tranquillity! 

A  good  example  of  Lamb's  habit  of  constructing  a  quota- 
tion out  of  his  general  recollection  of  a  passage.  The  lines  he 
hjid  in  his  mind  are  from  Congreve's  Mourning  Bride,  Act 
IL  Scene  1: — 

*'  How  reverend  is  the  face  of  this  tall  pile, 
Whose  ancient  pillars  rear  their  marble  heads 
To  bear  aloft  its  arched  and  ponderous  roof. 
By  its  own  weight  made  stedfast  and  immoveable. 
Looking  tranquillity." 

The  writings  of  John  Woolman. 

"A  jomnal  of  the  life,  gospel  laboura,  and  Christian  expe- 
riences of  that  faithful  minister  of  Jesus  Christ,  John  Wool- 
Si  1 


NOTES 

man,  late  of  Mount  Holly,  in  the  Province  of  Jersey,  North 
America"  (1720-1772).  Woolman  was  an  American  Quaker 
of  humble  origin,  an  "illiterate  tailor,''  one  of  the  first  who 
had  "misgivings  about  the  institution  of  slavery.""  Crabb 
Robinson,  to  whom  Lamb  introduced  the  book,  becomes  rap- 
turous over  it.  "His  religion  is  love;  his  whole  existence  and 
all  his  passions  were  love!" 

"Forty  feeding  like  one" 

From  Wordsworth's  verses,  written  in  March  1801,  begin- 
ning—- 

*'The  cock  is  crowing. 
The  stream  is  flowing." 

I  have  noted  elsewhere  Lamb's  strong  native  sympathy  with 
the  Quaker  spirit  and  Quaker  manners  and  customs,  a  sym- 
pathy so  marked  that  it  is  difficult  to  believe  it  was  not  in- 
herited, and  that  on  one  or  other  side  of  his  parentage  he  had 
not  relations  with  the  Society  of  Friends.  His  picture  of  the 
Quakerism  of  sixty  years  ago  is  of  almost  historical  value,  so 
great  are  the  changes  that  have  since  divided  the  Society 
against  itself. 


THE  OLD  AND  THE  NEW  SCHOOLMASTER 

("London  Magazine,"  May  1821) 

My  friend  M. 

Thomas  Manning,  the  mathematician  and  explorer,  whose 

acquaintance  Lamb  made  early  in  life  at  Cambridge. 

King  Basilius. 

See  Sidney's  Arcadia,  Book  i.  (vol.  ii.  p.  17  of  the  edition 

of  1725). 


NOTES 

E>oen  a  child,  that  "plaything  for  an  hour" 
One   of  Lamb's   quotations  from   himself.  The  phrase  oc- 
curs in  a  charming  poem,  of  three  stanzas,  in  the  Poetry  for 
Children:— 

"A  child 's  a  plaything  for  an  hour; 
Its  pretty  tricks  we  try 
For  that  or  for  a  longer  space; 
Then  tire  and  lay  it  by. 

"But  I  knew  one  that  to  itself 
All  seasons  could  control ; 
That  would  have  mocked  the  sense  of  pain 
Out  of  a  graved  soul. 

"Thou  straggler  into  loving  arms. 
Young  climber  up  of  knees, 
When  I  forget  thy  thousand  ways. 
Then  life  and  all  shall  cease." 


IMPERFECT  SYMPATHIES 
("London  Magazine,""  August  1821) 

Standing  on  earth,  not  rapt  above  the  sky. 

Quoted,  not  with  perfect  accuracy,  from  Paradise  Lost,  vii.  23. 

John  Buncle. 

"The  Life  of  John  Buncle,  Esq.;  containing  various  observa- 
tions and  reflections,  made  in  several  parts  of  the  world,  and 
many  extraordinary  relations."  By  Thomas  Amory  (1756-66). 
Amory  was  a  staunch  Unitarian,  an  eaniest  moralist,  a  hu- 
morist, and  eccentric  to  the  verge  of  insanity  —  four  qualifica- 
tions which  would  appeal  iiTesistibly  to  Lamb's  sympathies. 

A  graceful  female  after  Leonardo  da  Vinci. 
This  print,  a  present  to  Lamb  from  Crabb  Robinson  in  181G, 
was  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci's  Vierge  aux  Rockers.  It  was  a  spo- 

SIS 


NOTES 

cial  favourite  with  Charles  and  Mary,  and  is  the  subject  of 
some  verses  by  Charles. 

B would  have  been  more  in  keeping  if  he  had 

abided  by  the  faith  of  his  forefathers. 

Braham,  the  singer.  In  a  letter  to  Manning,  Lamb  describes 

him  as  a  compound  of  the  "Jew,  the  gentleman,  and  the 

angel." 

"  To  sit  a  guest  with  Daniel  at  his  pulse.'' 
Slightly  altered  from  Paradise  Regained,  Book  ii.  line  278. 

/  was  travelling  in  a  stage-coach  with  three  male 

Quakers. 

This  adventure  happened  not  to  Lamb,  but  to  Sir  Anthony 

Carlisle,  the  surgeon,  from  whom  Lamb  had  the  anecdote. 


WITCHES,  AND  OTHER  NIGHT  FEARS 

("London  Magazine,""  October  1821) 

Headless  bear,  black  man,  or  ape. 

From  "The  Author's  Abstract  of  Melancholy,"  prefixed  to 

Burton's  Anatomy  of  Melancholy. 

Dear  little  T.  H. 

Thornton  Hunt,  Leigh  Hunt's  eldest  boy.  This  passage  is 
interesting  as  having  provoked  Southey's  violent  attack  on 
Leigh  Hunt  and  his  principles,  in  the  Quarterly  Review  for 
January  1823. 

" — Names,  whose  sense  we  see  not. 
Fray  us  with  things  that  be  not.'' 
From  Spenser's  Epithalamium,  line  343. 

314 


NOTES 

/  have  formerly  travelled  among  the  Westmoreland 
fells. 

See  Lamb's  letter  to  Manning,  in  1802,  describing  his  and 
Mary''s  visit  to  Coleridge  at  Keswick.  "We  got  in  in  the  even- 
ing, travelling  in  a  post-chaise  from  Penrith,  in  the  midst  of 
a  gorgeous  sunset,  which  transmuted  all  the  mountains  into 
colours.  We  thought  we  had  got  into  Fairyland.  .  .  .  Such  an 
impression  I  never  received  from  objects  of  sight  before,  nor 
do  I  suppose  that  I  can  ever  again." 


VALENTINE'S  DAY 

(Leigh  Hunt's  "Indicator,"  February  14,  1821;  and 
"Examiner,"  February  14,  1819) 

"Brush'd  with  the  hiss  of  rustling  wings." 
Milton's  Paradise  Lost,  i.  768. 

''Gives  a  very  echo  to  the  throne  where  Hope  is  seated." 
Another  of  Lamb's  adaptations  of  Shakspeare.  The  original 
is  in  Twelfth  Night  (Act  II.  Sc.  4). 

A  little  later  on  will  be  noticed  a  similar  free-and-easy  use 
of  a  passage  from  Wordsworth. 

E.B. 

Edward  Francis  Bumey  (1760-1848),  a  portrait-pamter,  and 
book-illustrator  on  a  large  scale.  He  was  a  cousin  of  Mde. 
D'Arblay,  and  not  a  half-brother  as  stated  in  Iamb's  Key. 
His  name  may  be  seen  "at  the  bottom  of  many  a  well-exe- 
cuted vignette  in  the  way  of  his  profession"  in  the  periodicals 
of  his  day.  He  illustrated  for  Harrison,  the  WorUU  Taller, 
Guardian,  Adventurer,  etc.,  besides  the  Arabian  Niglits,  and 
novels  of  Richardson  and  Smollett. 

815 


NOTES 

MY  RELATIONS 
("London  Magazine,"'  June  1821) 

IN  these  two  successive  essays,  and  in  that  on  the  Benchers 
of  the  Inner  Temple,  Lamb  draws  portraits  of  singular 
interest  to  us,  of  his  father,  aunt,  brother,  and  sister — all  his 
near  relations  with  one  exception.  The  mother's  name  never 
occurs  in  letter  or  published  writing  after  the  first  bitterness 
of  the  calamity  of  September  1796  had  passed  away.  This  was 
doubtless  out  of  consideration  for  the  feelings  of  his  sister. 
Very  noticeable  is  the  frankness  with  which  he  describes  the 
less  agreeable  side  of  the  character  of  his  brother  John,  who 
was  still  living,  and  apparently  on  quite  friendly  terms  with 
Charles  and  Mary. 

/  had  an  aunt. 

A  sister  of  John  Lamb  the  elder,  who  generally  lived  with 
the  family,  and  contributed  something  to  the  common  in- 
come. After  the  death  of  the  mother,  a  lady  of  comfortable 
means,  a  relative  of  the  family,  offered  her  a  home,  but  the 
arrangement  did  not  succeed,  and  the  aunt  returned  to  die 
among  her  own  people.  Charles  writes,  just  before  her  death 
in  February  1797 — "My  poor  old  aunt,  who  was  the  kindest 
creature  to  me  when  I  was  at  school,  and  used  to  bring  me 
good  things ;  when  I,  schoolboy-like,  used  to  be  ashamed  to 
see  her  come,  and  open  her  apron,  and  bring  out  her  basin 
with  some  nice  thing  which  she  had  saved  for  me, — the  good 
old  creature  is  now  dying.  She  says,  poor  thing,  she  is  glad 
she  is  come  home  to  die  with  me.  I  was  always  her  favourite." 
See  also  the  lines  "written  on  the  day  of  my  aunt's  funeral'' 
in  the  little  volume  of  Blank  Verse,  by  Charles  Lloyd  and 
Charles  Lamb,  published  in  1798. 


816 


NOTES 

Brother,  or  sister,  I  never  had  any — to  hnoiv  them. 
In  this  and  the  next  sentence  is  a  curious  blending  of  fact  and 
fiction.  Besides  John  and  Mary,  four  other  children  had  been 
born  to  John  and  Elizabeth  Lamb  in  the  Temple,  between 
the  years  1762  and  1775,  but  had  apparently  not  survi\ed 
their  infancy.  Two  daughters  had  been  christened  Elizabeth, 
one  in  1762  and  another  after  her  death,  in  1768.  John  and 
Mary  Lamb  are  now  to  be  described  as  cousins,  under  the 
names  of  James  and  Bridget  Elia.  Charles  Lamb  actually  had 
relations,  in  that  degree,  living  in  Hertfordshire,  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Wheathampstead. 

James  is  an  inexplicable  cousin. 

The  mixture  of  the  man  of  the  world,  dilettante,  and  sen- 
timentalist— not  an  infrequent  combination — is  here  de- 
scribed with  graphic  power.  All  that  we  know  of  John  I^inb, 
the  "broad,  burly,  jovial,"  living  his  bachelor-life  in  cham- 
bers at  the  old  Sea-House,  is  supported  and  confirmed  by  this 
passage.  Touching  his  extreme  sensibility  to  the  physical  suf- 
ferings of  animals,  there  is  a  letter  of  Charles  to  Crabb  Rob- 
inson of  the  year  1810,  which  is  worth  noting.  "]\Iy  brother, 
whom  you  have  met  at  my  rooms  (a  plump,  good-looking  man 
of  seven-and-forty),  has  written  a  book  about  humanity,  which 
I  transmit  to  you  herewith.  Wilson  the  publisher  has  put  it 
into  his  head  that  you  can  get  it  reviewed  for  him.  I  daresay 
it  is  not  in  the  scope  of  your  review;  but  if  you  could  put  it 
into  any  likely  train,  he  would  rejoice.  For,  alas!  our  boasted 
humanity  partakes  of  vanity.  As  it  is,  he  teases  me  to  death 
with  choosing  to  suppose  that  I  could  get  it  into  all  the  Re- 
views at  a  moment's  notice.  I  !  !  ! — who  have  been  set  up  as 
a  mark  for  them  to  throw  at,  and  would  willingly  consign 
them  all  to  Megaera'^s  snaky  locks.  But  here's  the  book,  and 
don't  show  it  to  Mrs.  Collier,  for  I  remember  she  makes  ex- 


S17 


NOTES 

cellent  eel  soup,  and  the  leading  points  of  the  book  are  directed 
against  that  very  process." 

Through  the  green  plains  of  pleasant  Hertfordshire. 
From  an  early  sonnet  of  Lamb's.  Mr.  W.  J.  Craig  has  been 
the  first  to  point  out  that  the  line  is  an  imperfect  recollection 
of  one  in  Vallans's  "Tale  of  the  Two  Swans,"  which  Lamb  no 
doubt  met  with  in  Hearne's  edition  of  Leland''s  Itinerary — 

** About  this  time  the  Lady  Venus  views 
The  fruitful  fields  of  pleasant  Hertfordshire." 


MACKERY   END,   IN   HERTFORDSHIRE 
("London  Magazine,"  July  1821) 

Bridget  Elia. 

Mary  Lamb.  The  lives  of  the  brother  and  sister  are  so  bound 
together,  that  the  illustrations  of  their  joint  life  afforded 
by  this  essay,  and  that  on  Old  China,  are  of  singular  interest. 
They  show  us  the  brighter  and  happier  intervals  of  that  life, 
without  which  indeed  it  could  hardly  have  been  borne  for 
those  eight-and -thirty  years.  In  1805,  during  one  of  Mary 
LamVs  periodical  attacks  of  mania,  and  consequent  absences 
from  home,  Charles  writes — "I  am  a  fool  bereft  of  her  co- 
operation. I  am  used  to  look  up  to  her  in  the  least  and  big- 
gest perplexities.  To  say  all  that  I  find  her  would  be  more 
than,  I  think,  anybody  could  possibly  understand.  She  is 
older,  wiser,  and  better  than  I  am ;  and  all  my  wretched  im- 
perfections I  cover  to  myself  by  thinking  on  her  goodness."" 
Compare  also  the  sonnet  written  by  Charles,  in  one  of  his 
"lucid  intervals"  when  himself  in  confinement,  in  1796,  end- 
ing with  the  words — 

" — the  mighty  debt  of  love  I  owe, 
Mary,  to  thee,  my  sister  and  my  friend." 

318 


NOTES 

The  oldest  thing  I  remember  is  Mockery  End,  or 
Mackarel  End. 

The  place,  now  further  contracted  into  "Mackrye  End,""  is 
about  a  mile  and  a  half  from  Wheathampstead,  on  the  Lu- 
ton Branch  of  the  Great  Northern  Railway.  On  leaving  the 
Wheathampstead  Station,  the  traveller  must  follow  the  road 
which  runs  along  the  valley  towards  Luton,  nearly  parallel  with 
the  railway  for  about  a  mile,  to  a  group  of  houses  near  the 
"Cherry  Trees.""  At  this  point  he  will  turn  short  to  the  right, 
and  then  take  the  first  turning  on  his  left,  along  the  edge  of 
a  pretty  little  wood.  He  will  soon  see  the  venerable  old  Jaco- 
bean mansion,  properly  called  Mackrye  End,  and  close  to  it  a 
whitish  farmhouse,  which  is  the  one  occupied  by  Lamb's  rela- 
tives, the  Gladmans,  at  the  time  of  the  pilgrimage  recorded 
in  this  essay.  The  present  writer  has  visited  the  spot,  also  in 
the  "heart  of  June,""  and  bears  the  pleasantest  testimony  to  its 
rural  beauty  and  seclusion.  The  farmhouse  has  had  an  impor- 
tant addition  to  it  since  Lamb"'s  day,  but  a  large  portion  of 
the  building  is  evidently  still  the  same  as  when  the  "image 
of  welcome"  came  forth  from  it  to  greet  the  brother  and  sis- 
ter. May  I,  without  presumption,  call  attention  to  the  almost 
unique  beauty  of  this  prose  idyll  ? 

But  thou,  that  didst  appear  so  fair 

To  fond  imagination. 
Wordsworth''s  "Yarrow  Visited." 

B,F. 

Barron  Field,  who  accompanied  Lamb  and  his  sister  on  thii 

expedition.  See  the  essay  on  Distant  Correspondents. 

Compare  a  letter  of  Lamb  to  Manning  in  May  1819.  "How 

axe  my  cousins,  the  Gladmans  of  Wheathampstead,  and  farmer 

Bruton?  Mrs.  Bruton  is  a  glorious  woman.  'Hail,  Mackery 

End.'  This  is  a  fragment  of  a  blank  verse  poem  which  I  once 

meditated,  but  got  no  further." 

^  319 


NOTES 

MY  FIRST  PLAY 
("London  Magazine,'"  December  1821) 

The  only  landed  property  I  could  ever  call  my  own, 
Mrs.  Procter  informs  me  that  a  relative  of  Lamb's  did  act- 
ually bequeath  to  him  a  small  "landed  estate"" — probably  no 
more  than  a  single  field — producing  a  pound  or  two  of  rent, 
and  that  Lamb  was  fond  of  referring  to  the  circumstance,  and 
declaring  that  it  had  revolutionised  his  views  of  Property. 

The  first  appearance  to  me  of  Mrs.  Siddons  in  Isabella, 
One  of  Lamb"'s  earliest,  perhaps  his  first  sonnet,  was  inspired 
by  this  great  actress.  It  was  published,  with  some  of  Cole- 
ridge's, in  the  columns  of  the  Morning  Chronicle  in  1794. 

As  when  a  child,  on  some  long  winter's  night 
Affrighted  clinging  to  its  grandam's  knees, 
With  eager  wondering  and  perturbed  delight 
Listens  strange  tales  of  fearful  dark  decrees 
Muttered  to  wretch  by  necromantic  spell; 
Or  of  those  hags,  who  at  the  witching  time 
Of  murky  midnight  ride  the  air  sublime, 
And  mingle  foul  embrace  with  fiends  of  Hell: 
Cold  Horror  drinks  its  blood !  Anon  the  tear 
More  gentle  starts,  to  hear  the  beldame  tell 
Of  pretty  babes  that  loved  each  other  dear. 
Murdered  by  cruel  Uncle's  mandate  fell: 
Even  such  the  shivering  joys  thy  tones  impart. 
Even  so  thou,  Siddons,  meltest  my  sad  heart! 


MODERN   GALLANTRY 

("London  Magazine,"  November  1822) 

Joseph  Pake,  of  Bread-street-hill,  merchant. 
Some  very  interesting  particulars  of  the  life  and  character  of 
820 


NOTES 

this  generous  and  self-sacrificing  person,  in  whom  most  un- 
questionably "manners  were  not  idle,""  will  be  found  in  the 
Mhencmm  for  the  year  1841  (pp.  366  and  387),  contributed 
by  the  late  Miss  Anne  Manning.  Thomas  Edwards,  author  of 
Canons  of  Critkism^  a  very  acute  commentary  upon  AVar- 
burton's  emendations  of  Shakspeare,  was  his  uncle.  Edwards 
was  a  mediocre  poet,  but  his  sonnets  are  carefully  constructed 
on  the  Miltonic  scheme,  which  perhaps  accounts  for  Lamb's 
exaggerated  epithet.  The  sonnet  may  be  given  here  as  at  least 
a  curiosity: — 

To  Mr.  J.  Paice 
Joseph,  the  worthy  son  of  worthy  sire. 
Who  well  repay' st  thy  pious  parents'  care 
To  train  thee  in  the  ways  of  Virtue  fair, 
And  early  with  the  Love  of  Truth  inspire. 
What  farther  can  my  closing  eyes  desire 
To  see,  but  that  by  wedlock  thou  repair 
The  waste  of  death ;  and  raise  a  virtuous  heir 
To  build  our  House,  e'er  I  in  peace  retire .'' 
Youth  is  the  time  for  Love :  Then  choose  a  wife. 
With  prudence  choose;  'tis  Nature's  genuine  voice; 
And  what  she  truly  dictates  must  be  good ; 
Neglected  once  that  prime,  our  remnant  life 
la  soured,  or  saddened,  by  an  ill-timed  choice. 
Or  lonely,  dull,  and  friendless  solitude. 


THE  OLD  BENCHERS  OF  THE  INNER  TEMPLE 
("London  Magazine,""  September  1821) 

CHARLES  LAMB  was  bom  on  the  10th  of  February 
1775,  in  Crown  Office  Row,  Temple,  where  Samuel  Salt, 
a  Bencher  of  the  Inn,  owned  two  sets  of  chambei-s.  This  waa 
Lamb's  home  for  the  seven  years  preceding  his  admission  into 
Christ's  Hospital  in  1782,  and  afterwards,  in  holiday  seasons, 

321 


NOTES 

till  he  left  school  in  1789,  and  later,  at  least  till  Salt's  death 
in  1792,  A  recent  editor  of  Lamb's  works  has  stated  that, 
with  the  exception  of  Salt,  almost  all  the  names  of  Benchers 
given  in  this  essay  are  "purely  imaginary.""  The  reverse  of 
this  is  the  fact.  All  the  names  here  celebrated  are  to  be  found 
in  the  records  of  the  honourable  society. 

There  when  they  came^  whereas  those  bricky  towers. 
Spenser's  Prothalamion,  stanza  viii. 

Of  building  strong,  albeit  of  Paper  hight. 

Paper  Buildings,  facing  King's  Bench  Walk  in  the  Temple. 

The  line  is  doubtless  improvised  for  the  occasion. 

That  fine  Elizabethan  hall. 

The  hall  of  the  Middle  Temple.  The  fountain  still  plays,  but 

"quantum  mutatus." 

Ah!  yet  doth  beauty  like  a  dial  hand, 
Shakspeare's  Sonnet,  No.  104. 

** Carved  it  out  quaintly  in  the  sun" 
3  Henry  VI. ,  ii.  5. 

The  roguish  eye  of  J II. 

Jekyll,  the  Master  in  Chancery.  The  wit,  and  friend  of  wits, 
among  the  old  Benchers — the  Sir  George  Rose  of  his  day. 
Called  to  the  Bench  1805,  died  1837. 

Thomas  Coventry, 

Nephew  of  William,  fifth  Earl  of  Coventry;  of  North  Cray 

Place,  Bexley,  Kent.  Called  to  the  Bench  in  1766,  died  in 

1797. 

Samuel  Salt. 

Called  to  the  Bench  1782;  died  in  1792.  The  Bencher  in 
whom  Lamb  had  the  most  peculiar  interest.  John  Lamb,  the 
S2^ 


NOTES 

father,  was  in  the  service  of  Salt  for  some  five  and  forty  jeap» 
— he  acting  as  clerk  and  confidential  servant,  and  his  wife  as 
housekeeper.  As  we  have  seen,  Mr.  Salt  occupied  two  sets  of 
chambers  in  Crown  Office  Row,  forming  a  substantial  house. 
He  had  two  indoor  servants,  besides  John  and  Elizabeth  Lamb, 
and  kept  his  carriage.  Salt  died  in  1792.  By  his  will,  dated 
1786,  he  gives  "To  my  servant,  John  Lamb,  who  has  lived 
with  me  near  forty  years,"  <£*500  South  Sea  stock;  and  "to 
Mrs.  Lamb  ^£^100  in  money,  well  deserved  for  her  care  and 
attention  during  my  illness.'"  By  a  codicil,  dated  December 
20,  1787,  his  executors  are  directed  to  employ  John  Lamb  to 
receive  the  testator''s  "Exchequer  annuities  of  i^210  and  £14! 
during  their  term,  and  to  pay  him  ^£"10  a-year  for  his  trouble 
so  long  as  he  shall  receive  them,""  a  delicate  and  ingenious 
way  of  retaining  John  Lamb  in  his  service,  as  it  were,  after 
his  own  decease.  By  a  later  codicil  he  gives  another  hundred 
pounds  to  Mrs.  Lamb.  These  benefactions,  and  not  the  small 
pension  erroneously  stated,  on  the  authority  of  Talfourd,  in 
my  memoir  of  Lamb,  formed  the  provision  made  by  Salt  for 
his  faithful  pair  of  attendants.  The  appointment  of  Charles 
to  the  clerkship  in  the  India  House  in  1792  must  have  been 
the  last  of  the  many  kind  acts  of  Samuel  Salt  to  the  family. 
Where  the  Lamb  family  moved  to  after  Salt's  death  in  1792, 
and  how  they  struggled  on  between  that  date  and  the  fatal 
year  1796,  is  one  of  the  unsettled  points  of  Dunb's  history. 
Mary  Lamb's  skill  with  her  needle  was  probably  used  as  a 
means  of  increasing  the  common  income,  Crabb  Robinson  tells 
us  of  an  article  on  needlework  contributed  by  her  some  years 
later  to  one  of  the  magazines. 

The  unfortunate  Miss  Blmidy. 

The  heroine  of  a  came  celebre  in  the  year  1752.  Her  whole 
story  will  be  found,  a  propos  of  the  town  of  Henley,  in  Mr. 
Leslie's  charming  book  on  the  Thames,  entitled  Our  River. 

323 


NOTES 

Miss  Blandy,  the  daughter  of  an  attorney  at  Henley,  with 
good  expectations  from  her  father,  attracted  the  attention  of 
an  adventurer,  a  certain  Captain  Cranstoun.  The  father  dis- 
approved of  the  intimacy,  and  the  Captain  entrusted  Miss 
Blandy  with  a  certain  powder  which  she  administered  to  her 
father  with  a  fatal  result.  Her  defence  was  that  she  believed 
the  powder  to  be  of  the  nature  of  a  love-philtre,  which  would 
have  the  effect  of  making  her  father  well-afFected  towards  her 
lover.  The  defence  was  not  successful,  and  Miss  Blandy  was 
found  guilty  of  murder,  and  executed  at  Oxford  in  April  1752. 

Susan  P . 

Susannah  Pierson,  sister  of  Salfs  brother-Bencher,  Peter  Pier- 
son,  mentioned  in  this  essay,  and  one  of  Salt's  executors.  By 
his  second  codicil,  Salt  bequeaths  her,  as  a  mark  of  regard, 
0^500;  his  silver  inkstand;  and  the  "works  of  Pope,  Swift, 
Shakspeare,  Addison,  and  Steele";  also  Sherlock's  Sermons 
(Sherlock  had  been  Master  of  the  Temple),  and  any  other 
books  she  likes  to  choose  out  of  his  library,  hoping  that,  "by 
reading  and  reflection,""  they  will  "make  her  life  more  com- 
fortable." How  oddly  touching  this  bequest  seems  to  us, 
in  the  light  thrown  on  it  by  Lamb's  account  of  the  rela- 
tion between  Salt  and  his  friend's  sister!  What  a  pleasant 
glimpse,  again,  is  here  afforded  of  the  "spacious  closet  of 
good  old  English  reading"  into  which  Charles  and  Mary 
were  "tumbled,"  as  he  told  us,  at  an  early  age,  when  they 
"browsed  at  will  upon  that  fair  and  wholesome  pasturage." 

/  knew  this  Lovel. 

Lamb's  father,  John  Lamb.  The  sketch  of  him  given  in  Mr. 
Procter's  memoir  of  Charles,  taken  doubtless  from  the  por- 
trait here  mentioned,  confirms  the  statement  of  a  general 
resemblance  to  Garrick.  The  late  Mrs.  Arthur  Tween,  a 
daughter  of  Randal  Norris,  had  in  her  possession  a  medallion 
portrait  of  Samuel  Salt,  executed  in  plaster  of  Paris  by  John 
324 


NOTES 

Lamb.  He  published  a  collection  of  his  verses,  "Poetical 
Pieces  on  several  occasions,'"  in  a  rough  pamphlet  of  quarto 
size.  A  few  lines  from  the  (rather  doggerel)  verses  describing 
the  life  of  a  footman  in  the  last  century  (doubtless  reflecting 
his  own  experiences  of  the  time  when  he  wore  "the  smart 
new  livery")  may  be  given  as  a  sample  of  his  efforts  in  the 
manner  of  "Swift  and  Prior."  The  footman  has  just  been 
sent  on  an  errand  to  inquire  after  the  health  of  a  friend  of 
his  mistress  who  has  lost  her  monkey:  — 

**Then  up  she  mounts  —  down  I  descend. 
To  shake  hands  with  particular  friend ; 
And  there  I  do  some  brothers  meet, 
And  we  each  other  kindly  greet ; 
Then  cards  they  bring  and  cribbage-boardj 
And  I  must  play  upon  their  word, 
Altho'  I  tell  them  I  am  sent 
To  know  how  th'  night  a  lady  spent. 
*Pho!  make  excuse,  and  have  one  bout. 
And  say  the  lady  was  gone  out;* 
Th'  advice  I  take,  sit  down  and  say, 
'What  is  the  sum  for  which  we  play?' 
'I  care  not  much/  another  cries, 
*But  let  it  be  for  Wets  and  Drys.'" 

Since  the  death  of  Mrs.  Tween,  the  medallion  portrait  and 
the  collection  of  verses  have  passed  into  the  present  Editor's 
possession. 

''A  remnant  most  forlorn  of  what  he  rcas.^ 

One  of  Lamb's  quotations  from  himself.  It  occurs  in  the  lines 

(February  1797)  "written  on  the  day  of  my  aunt's  funeral": — 

"One  parent  yet  is  left, —a  wretched  thing, 
A  sad  survivor  of  his  buried  wife, 
A  palsy-smitten,  childish,  old,  old  man, 
A  semblance  most  forlorn  of  what  he  wa«, 
A  merry  cheerful  man." 

John  Lamb  lingered  till  April  1799. 

825 


NOTES 

Pet^  Pierson. 

Called  to  the  Bench  1800,  died  1808.  It  will  be  seen  that 
Salt  and  Pierson,  though  friends  and  contemporaries  at  the 
Bar,  were  not  so  as  Benchers.  Salt  had  been  some  years  dead 
when  his  friend  was  called  to  the  Bench. 

Daines  Barrington. 

The  antiquary,  naturalist,  and  correspondent  of  White  of 

Selbome.  Called  to  the  Bench  in  1777,  died  1800. 

Thomas  Barton, 

Called  to  the  Bench  1775,  died  1791. 

John  Read, 

Called  to  the  Bench  1792,  died  in  1804. 

Txvopenny. 

There  never  was  a  Bencher  of  the  Inner  Temple  of  this 
name.  The  gentleman  here  intended,  Mr.  Richard  Twopeny, 
was  a  stockbroker,  a  member  of  the  Kentish  family  of  that 
name,  who,  being  a  bachelor,  lived  in  chambers  in  the  Temple. 
On  his  retirement  from  business  he  resided  at  West  Mailing 
in  Kent,  and  died  in  1809,  at  the  age  of  eighty-two.  Mr. 
Edward  Twopeny  of  Woodstock,  Sittingbourne,  a  great- 
nephew  of  this  gentleman,  remembers  him  well,  and  informs 
me  that  he  was,  as  Lamb  describes  him,  remarkably  thin. 
Lamb  evidently  recalled  him  as  a  familiar  figure  in  the  Tem- 
ple in  his  own  childish  days,  and  supposed  him  to  have  been 
a  member  of  the  Bar.  Mr.  Twopeny  held  the  important  po- 
sition of  stockbroker  to  the  Bank  of  England. 

John  Wharry. 

Called  to  the  Bench  1801,  died  in  1812. 

Richard  Jackson. 

Called  to  the  Bench  1770,  died  1787.  This  gentleman  was 
326 


NOTES 

M.  P.  for  New  Romney  and  a  member  of  Lord  Shelbiirne's 
Government  in  1782.  From  his  wide  reading  and  extraordi- 
nary memory  he  was  Icnown,  beyond  the  circle  of  his  brother- 
Benchers,  as  "the  omniscient.""  Dr.  Johnson  (reversing  the 
usual  order  of  his  translations)  styles  him  the  "all-knowing.'" 
See  Boswell,  under  date  of  April  1776: — "No,  Sir;  Mr.  Thrale 
is  to  go  by  my  advice  to  Mr.  Jackson  (the  all-knowing),  and 
get  from  him  a  plan  for  seeing  the  most  that  can  be  seen  in 
the  time  that  we  have  to  travel." 

James  Mingay. 

Called  to  the  Bench  1785,  died  1812.  Mr.  Mingay  was  an 
eminent  King's  Counsel,  and  in  his  day  a  powerful  rival  at 
the  Bar,  of  Thomas  Erskine — according  to  an  obituary  notice 
in  the  Gentleinaii's  Magazine,  of  "a  persuasive  oratory,  infi- 
nite wit,  and  most  excellent  fancy."'"'  His  retort  upon  Erskine, 
about  the  knee-buckles,  goes  to  confirm  this  verdict. 

Baron  Maseres. 

Cursitor  Baron  of  the  Exchequer,  a  post  which  he  filled  for 
fifty  years.  Born  1731,  died  May  1824.  He  persevered  to  the 
end  of  his  days  in  wearing  the  costume  of  the  reign  in  which 
he  was  bom. 

R.N. 

Randal  Norris,  for  many  years  Sub-Treasurer  and  Librarian 
of  the  Inner  Temple.  At  the  age  of  fourteen  he  was  articled 
to  Mr.  Walls  of  Paper  Buildings,  and  from  that  time,  for 
more  than  half  a  century,  resided  in  the  Inner  Temple.  His 
wife  was  a  native  of  Widford,  the  village  adjoining  Blakes- 
ware,  in  Hertfordshire,  and  a  friend  of  Mrs.  Field,  the  house- 
keeper, and  there  was  thus  a  double  tie  connecting  Ran- 
dal Norris  with  Lamb"'s  family.  His  name  appears  early  in 
Charles"'s  correspondence.  At  the  season  of  his  mother''s  death, 
be  tell«  Coleridge  that  Mr.  Norris  had  been   mor?  than  a 

327 


NOTES 

father  to  him,  and  Mrs.  Norris  more  than  a  mother.  Mr. 
Norris  died  in  the  Temple  in  January  1827,  at  the  age  of 
seventy-six,  and  was  buried  in  the  Temple  churchyard.  Tal- 
fourd  misdates  the  event  by  a  year.  It  was  then  that  Charles 
Lamb  wrote  to  Crabb  Robinson — "In  him  I  have  a  loss  the 
world  cannot  make  up.  He  was  my  friend  and  my  father's 
friend  all  the  life  I  can  remember.  I  seem  to  have  made  fool- 
ish friendships  ever  since.  Those  are  the  friendships  which 
outlive  a  second  generation.  Old  as  I  am  waxing,  in  his  eyes 
I  was  still  the  child  he  first  knew  me.  To  the  last  he  called 
me  Charley.  I  have  none  to  call  me  Charley  now." 


GRACE  BEFORE  MEAT 
("London  Magazine,**  Novembee  1821) 


Coleridge. 

c.  r.  L, 

Charles  Valentine  le  Grice,  Lamb^s  schoolfellow  at  Christ's 
Hospital.  See  the  Essay  on  that  Institution. 

Some  one  recalled  a  legend. 

Leigh  Hunt  tells  the  story  in  his  account  of  Christ's  Hos- 
pital:— "Our  dress  was  of  the  coarsest  and  quaintest  kind, 
but  was  respected  out  of  doors,  and  is  so.  It  consisted  of  a 
blue  drugget  gown,  or  body,  with  ample  skirts  to  it;  a  yellow 
vest  underneath  in  winter  time;  small  clothes  of  Russia  duck; 
worsted  yellow  stockings;  a  leathern  girdle;  and  a  little  black 
worsted  cap,  usually  carried  in  the  hand.  I  believe  it  was  the 
ordinary  dress  of  children  in  humble  life  during  the  reign  of 
the  Tudors.  We  used  to  flatter  ourselves  that  it  was  taken 
from  the  monks;  and  there  went  a  monstrous  tradition,  that 
at  one  period  it  consisted  of  blue  velvet  with  silver  buttons. 
328 


NOTES 

It  was  said,  also,  that  during  the  blissful  era  of  the  blue  vel- 
vet, we  had  roast  mutton  for  supper;  but  that  the  small 
clothes  not  being  then  in  existence,  and  the  mutton  suppers 
too  luxurious,  the  eatables  were  given  up  for  the  ineffables." 
The  following  beautiful  passage  from  the  Recreations  and 
Studies  by  a  Country  Clergyman  of  the  Eighteenth  Century 
(John  Murray,  1882),  shows  that  others,  besides  Lamb,  had 
thought  the  main  thought  of  this  essay.  The  writer  is  describ- 
ing, in  1781,  the  drive  from  Huddersfield,  along  the  banks  of 
the  Calder: — "I  never  felt  anything  so  fine:  I  shall  remember 
it  and  thank  God  for  it  as  long  as  I  live.  I  am  sorry  I  did  not 
think  to  say  grace  after  it.  Are  we  to  be  grateful  for  nothing 
but  beef  and  pudding.?  to  thank  God  for  life,  and  not  for 
happiness?'' 


DREAM  CHILDREN;  A  REVERIE 

("London  Magazine,**  January  1822) 

THE  mood  in  which  Lamb  was  prompted  to  this  sin- 
gularly affecting  confidence  was  clearly  due  to  a  family 
bereavement,  a  month  or  two  before  the  date  of  the  essay.  I 
may  be  allowed  to  repeat  words  of  my  own,  used  elsewhere, 
on  this  subject.  "Lamb"'s  elder  brother  John  was  then  lately 
dead.  A  letter  to  Wordsworth,  of  March  1822,  mentions  his 
death  as  even  then  recent,  and  speaks  of  a  certain  'deadness 
to  everything"'  which  the  writer  dates  from  that  event.  The 
*broad,  burly,  jovial,' John  Lamb  (so  Talfourd  describes  him) 
had  lived  his  own  easy  prosperous  life  up  to  this  time,  not  al- 
together avoiding  social  relations  with  his  brother  and  sister, 
but  evidently  absorbed  to  the  last  in  his  owti  interests  and 
pleasures.  The  death  of  this  brother,  wholly  unsympathetic  as 
he  was  with  Charles,  served  to  bring  home  to  him  his  loneli- 

329 


NOTES 

ness.  He  wm  left  in  the  world  with  but  one  near  relation,  and 
that  one  too  often  removed  from  him  for  months  at  a  time 
by  the  saddest  of  afflictions.  No  wonder  if  he  became  keenly 
aware  of  his  solitude.''  The  emotion  discernible  in  this  essay  is 
absolutely  genuine;  the  blending  of  fact  with  fiction  in  the 
details  is  curiously  arbitrary. 

Their  great-grandmother  Field. 

Lamb's  grandmother,  Mary  Field,  for  more  than  fifty  years 
housekeeper  at  Blakesware,  a  dower-house  of  the  Hertford- 
shire family  of  Plumers,  a  few  miles  from  Ware.  William 
Plumer,  who  represented  his  county  for  so  many  years  in 
Parliament,  was  still  living,  and  Lamb  may  have  disguised 
the  whereabouts  of  the  "great  house"  out  of  consideration  for 
him.  Why  he  substituted  Norfolk  is  only  matter  for  conjec- 
ture. Perhaps  there  were  actually  scenes  from  the  old  legend 
of  the  Children  in  the  Wood  carved  upon  a  chimneypiece  at 
Blakesware;  possibly  there  was  some  old  story  in  the  annals 
of  the  Plumer  family  touching  the  mysterious  disappearance 
of  two  children,  for  which  it  pleased  Lamb  to  substitute  the 
story  of  the  familiar  ballad.  His  grandmother,  as  he  has  told 
us  in  his  lines  The  Grandame^  was  deeply  versed  "in  anecdote 
domestic" 

Which  afterwards  came  to  decay,  and  was  nearly 
pulled  down. 

The  dismantling  of  the  Blakesware  house  had  therefore  be- 
gun, it  appears,  before  the  death  of  William  Plumer.  Cussans, 
in  his  History  of'  Hertfordshire ^  says  it  was  pulled  down  in 
1822.  Perhaps  the  complete  demolition  was  not  carried  but 
till  after  Mr.  Plumer's  death  in  that  year.  The  "other  house" 
was  Gilston,  the  principal  seat  of  the  Plumers,  some  miles 
distant.  See  notes  on  the  essay  Blakesmoor  in  Hertfordihirt. 


NOTES 

And  then  I  told  how^  when  she  came  to  die. 
Mrs.  Field  died  in  the  summer  of  1792,  and  was  buried  in 
the  adjoining  churchyard  of  Widford.  Her  gravestone,  with 
the  name  and  date  of  death,  August  5,  1792,  is  still  to  be 
seen,  and  is  one  of  the  few  tangible  memorials  of  Lamb's 
family  history  still  existing.  By  a  curious  fatality,  it  narrowly 
escaped  destruction  in  the  great  gale  of  October  1881,  when 
a  tree  was  blown  down  across  it,  considerably  reducing  its 
proportions. 

John  L . 


Of  course  John  Lamb,  the  brother.  Whether  Charles  was 
ever  a  "lame-footed""  boy,  through  some  temporary  cause,  we 
cannot  say.  We  know  that  at  the  time  of  the  mother's  death 
John  Lamb  was  suffering  from  an  injury  to  his  foot,  and 
made  it  (after  his  custom)  an  excuse  for  not  exerting  himself 
unduly.  See  the  letter  of  Charles  to  Coleridge  written  at  the 
time.  "My  brother,  little  disposed  (I  speak  not  without  ten- 
derness for  him)  at  any  time  to  take  care  of  old  age  and  in- 
firmities, had  now,  with  his  bad  leg,  an  exemption  from  such 
duties."" 

I  courted  the  fair  Alice  W n. 

In  my  memoir  of  Charles  Lamb,  I  have  given  the  reasons 

for  identifying  Alice  W n  with  the  Anna  of  the  early 

sonnets,  and  again  with  the  form  and  features  of  the  village 
maiden  described  as  Rosamund  Gray.  The  girl  who  is  cele- 
brated under  these  various  names  won  the  heart  of  Charles 
Lamb  while  he  was  yet  little  more  than  a  boy.  He  does  not 
care  to  conceal  from  us  that  it  was  in  Hertfordshire,  while 
under  his  grandmother's  roof,  that  he  first  met  her.  The 
Beauty  "with  the  yellow  Hertfordshire  hair — so  like  my 
Alice,"  is  how  he  describes  the  portrait  in  the  picture  gallery 
*t  Blakesmoor.  Moreover,  the  "winding  wood-walks  green"" 

331 


NOTES 

where  he  roamed  with  his  Anna,  can  hardly  be  unconnected 
with  the  "walks  and  windings  of  Blakesmoor,'"'  apostrophised 
at  the  close  of  that  beautiful  essay.  And  there  is  a  group 
of  cottages  called  Blenheim,  not  more  than  half  a  mile  from 
the  site  of  Blakesware  House,  where  the  original  Anna, 
according  to  the  traditions  of  the  village,  resided.  "Alice 

W n"  is  one  of  Lamb's  deliberate  inventions.  In  the  key 

to  the  initials  employed  by  him  in  his  essays,  he  explains 

that  Alice  W n  stood  for  Alice  Winterton,  but  that  the 

name  was  "feigned.''  Anna  was,  in  fact,  the  nearest  clue  to 
the  real  name  that  Lamb  has  vouchsafed.  Her  actual  name 
was,  I  have  the  best  reason  to  believe,  Ann  Simmons.  She 
afterwards  married  Mr.  Bartram,  the  pawnbroker  of  Princes 
Street,  Leicester  Square.  The  complete  history  of  this  epi- 
sode in  Lamb's  life  will  probably  never  come  to  light.  There 
are  many  obvious  reasons  why  any  idea  of  marriage  should 
have  been  indefinitely  abandoned.  The  poverty  in  Lamb's 
home  is  one  such  reason;  and  one,  even  more  decisive,  may 
have  been  the  discovery  of  the  taint  of  madness  that  was 
inherited,  in  more  or  less  degree,  by  all  the  children.  Why 
Lamb  chose  the  particular  alias  of  Winterton,  under  which 
to  disguise  his  early  love,  will  never  be  known.  It  was  a  name 
not  unfamiliar  to  him,  being  that  of  the  old  steward  in 
Colman's  play  of  the  Iron  Chesty  a  part  created  by  Lamb's 
favourite  comedian  Dodd.  The  play  was  first  acted  in  1796, 
about  the  time  when  the  final  separation  of  the  lovers  seems 
to  have  taken  place. 

The  tedious  shores  of  Lethe, 

Lamb  here  refers  to  the  famous  passage  in  the  sixth  book 
of  the  Aeneid^  where  Anchises,  the  father  of  Aeneas,  reveals 
to  the  latter,  who  is  allowed  to  visit  him  in  the  under  world, 
a  mingled  Pythagorean  and  Platonic  doctrine  of  purgatory 
and  transmigration  of  souls.  After  mentioning  the  necessary 
332 


NOTES 

punishments  and  purifying  tortures,  and  the  bhss  of  a  chosen 
few  who  abide  in  the  Happy  Fields  of  Elysium,  Anchises  pro- 
ceeds, "ifoj  omnes,''''  i.e.  the  purified  souls — 

**Has  omnes,  ubi  mille  rotam  volvere  per  annos, 
Lethaeum  ad  fluvium  deus  evocat  agmine  magno; 
Scilicet  immemores  supera  ut  convexa  revisant 
Rursus,  et  incipiant  in  corpora  velle  reverti." 

It  is  interesting  to  observe  how  Lamb,  even  while  his  emo- 
tions are  so  deeply  stirred,  turns  back  to  his  old  Virgilian 
studies  at  Christ's  Hospital  for  an  image  of  hopes  not  to  be 
fulfilled.  The  parallel  between  the  imaginary  forms  of  which 
he  dreams,  and  the  living  spirits  on  the  shores  of  Lethe, 
is  indeed  no  parallel,  but  is  not  the  less  touching  for  that 
reason. 

In  illustration  of  LamVs  fondness  for  children,  I  have  the 
pleasure  of  adding  the  following  pretty  letter  to  a  child,  not 
hitherto  printed.  It  was  written  to  a  little  girl  (one  of  twin- 
sisters),  the  daughter  of  Kenney  the  dramatist,  after  Lamb 
and  his  sister''s  visit  to  the  Kenneys  at  Versailles  in  Septem- 
ber 1822.  The  letter  has  been  most  kindly  placed  at  my  dis- 
posal by  my  friend  Mr.  W.  J.  Jeaffi-eson,  whose  mother  was 
the  Sophy  of  the  letter.  At  the  close  of  a  short  note  to  Mrs. 
Kenney,  Lamb  adds: — "Pray  deliver  what  follows  to  my  dear 
wife,  Sophy: — 

"My  dear  Sophy — The  few  short  days  of  connubial  felicity 
which  I  passed  with  you  among  the  pears  and  apricots  of 
Versailles  were  some  of  the  happiest  of  my  life.  But  they  are 
flown! 

"And  your  other  half,  your  dear  co-twin — that  she-you — 
that  almost  equal  sharer  of  my  affections — you  and  she  are 
my  better  half,  a  quarter  apiece.  She  and  you  are  my  pretty 
sixpence,  you  the  head,  and  she  the  tail.  Sure,  Heaven  that 
made  you  so  alike  must  pardon  the  error  of  an  inconsiderate 

3S8 


NOTES 

moment,  should  I  for  love  of  you,  love  her  too  wtll.  Do  yon 
think  laws  were  made  for  lovers?  I  think  not. 
"Adieu,  amiable  pair. 

"Yours,  and  yours, 

"C.  Lamb. 
"P.  S. — I  enclose  half  a  dear  kiss  apiece  for  you." 


DISTANT  CORRESPONDENTS 
("London  Magazine,''  March  1822) 

B.F, 

Barron  Field.  Bom  October  23,  1786.  He  was  educated  for 
the  Bar  and  practised  for  some  years,  going  the  Oxford  Cir- 
cuit. In  1816  he  married,  and  went  out  to  New  South  Wales 
as  Judge  of  the  Supreme  Court  at  Sydney.  In  1824  he  re- 
turned to  England,  having  resigned  his  judgeship;  but  two 
or  three  years  afterwards  he  was  appointed  Chief-Justice  of 
Gibraltar.  He  died  at  Torquay  in  1846.  His  brother,  Francis 
John  Field,  was  a  fellow-clerk  of  Charles  Lamb's  at  the  India 
House,  which  was  perhaps  the  origin  of  the  acquaintance. 
Barron  Field  edited  a  volume  of  papers  (Geographical  Me- 
moirs) on  New  South  Wales  for  Murray,  and  the  appendix 
contains  some  short  poems,  entitled  First-Fruits  of  Austra- 
lian Poetry.  Some  papers  of  his  are  to  be  found  in  Leigh 
Hunfs  Reflector^  to  which  Lamb  also  contributed. 

One  of  Mrs.  Howes  superscriptions. 
Mrs.  Elizabeth  Rowe  (1674-1737),  an  exemplary  person,  and 
now  forgotten  moralist  in  verse  and  prose.  Among  other 
works  she  wrote.  Friendship  in  Death — in  Twenty  Letters 
from  the  Dead  to  the  Living.  The  following  are  from  the 
"superscriptions'"  of  these  letters:  —  "To  Sylvia  from  Alexis;" 
**From  Oleander  to  his  Brother,  endeavouring  to  reclaim  him 
S34 


NOTES 

from  his  extravagances;''  "To  Emilia  from  Delia,  giving  her 
a  description  of  the  invisible  regions,  and  the  happy  state  of 
the  inhabitants  of  Paradise." 

The  late  Lord  C. 

The  second  Lord  Camelford,  killed  in  a  duel  with  Mr.  Best 
in  1804.  The  day  before  his  death  he  gave  directions  that  his 
body  should  be  removed  "as  soon  as  may  be  convenient  to  a 
country  far  distant!  to  a  spot  not  near  the  haunts  of  men, 
but  where  the  surrounding  scenery  may  smile  upon  my  re- 
mains. It  is  situated  on  the  borders  of  the  lake  of  St.  Lam- 
pierre,  in  the  Canton  of  Berne,  and  three  trees  stand  in  the 
particular  spot."  The  centre  tree  he  desired  might  be  taken 
up,  and  his  body  being  there  deposited,  innnediately  re- 
placed. At  the  foot  of  this  tree,  his  lordship  added,  he  had 
formerly  passed  many  solitary  hours,  contemplating  the  mu- 
tability of  human  affairs. — Anmud  Register  for  1804. 

Aye  me!  "vhile  thee  the  seas  and  sounding  shores 

Hold  far  away. 

LycidaSf  quoted  incorrectly,  as  usual. 

J.  w, 

James  White,  Lamb's  schoolfellow  at  Christ's  Hospital.  Died 
in  1820. 

THE   PRAISE   OF  CHIMNEY-SWEEPERS 
("London  Magazine,"  May  1822) 

A  sable  cloud 
Turns  forth  her  silver  lining  on  the  night, 
Milton,  ComiLSy  line  223. 

My  pleasant  fiend  Jem  TFhite. 

James  White,  a  schoolfellow  of  Lamb's  at  Christ's  Hospital, 

335 


NOTES 

and  the  author  of  a  Shakspearian  squib,  suggested  by  the 
Ireland  Forgeries — "Original  Letters,  etc.,  of  Sir  John  Fal- 
staff  and  his  friends,  now  first  made  public  by  a  gentle- 
man, a  descendant  of  Dame  Quickly,  from  genuine  manu- 
scripts which  have  been  in  the  possession  of  the  Quickly 
family  near  four  hundred  years.""  It  was  published  in  1796, 
and  Sou  they  believed  thf  t  Lamb  had  in  some  way  a  hand  in 
it.  The  Preface  in  particular  bears  some  traces  of  his  peculiar 
vein,  but  LamVs  enthusiastic  recommendation  of  the  book 
to  his  friends  seems  to  show  that  it  was  in  the  main  the  pro- 
duction of  James  White.  The  Jen  d'esprif  is  not  more  success- 
ful than  such  parodies  usually  are.  White  took  to  journalism, 
in  some  form,  and  was  at  the  time  of  his  death  in  March 
1820  an  "agent  of  Provincial  newspapers.""  His  annual  supper 
to  the  little  climbing-boys  was  imitated  by  many  charitable 
persons  in  London  and  other  large  towns. 

Our  trusty  companion,  Bigod. 

Lamb's  old  friend  and  editor  John  Ben  wick,  ot  the  Albion. 

See  Essay  on  the  Two  Races  of  Men. 

Golden  lads  and  lasses  must. 
Cymbeliney  Act  IV.  Sc.  2 — 

'^  Golden  lads  and  girls  all  must, 
As  chimney-sweepers,  come  to  dust." 

It  is  curious  that  in  this  essay  Lamb  does  not  even  allude 
to  the  grave  subject  of  the  cruelties  incident  to  the  climbing- 
boys'  occupation — a  question  which  for  some  years  past  had 
attracted  the  attention  of  philanthropic  persons,  in  and  out 
of  Parliament.  A  year  or  two  later,  however,  he  made  a  char- 
acteristic offering  to  the  cause.  In  1824  James  Montgomery 
of  Sheffield  edited  a  volume  of  Prose  and  Verse — The  Chini' 
ney-Sweeper's  Friend,  and  Climhing-hoifs  Album,  to  which 
many  writers  of  the  day  contributed.  Lamb,  who  had  been 
336 


NOTES 

applied  to,  sent  Blake's  poem — The  Chimney-Siceeper.  It  was 
headed,  "Communicated  by  Mr.  Charles  Lamb,  from  a  very 
rare  and  curious  little  work'' — doubtless  a  true  description 
of  the  Songs  of  Innocence  in  1824.  It  is  noteworthy  that,  be- 
fore sending  it,  this  incorrigible  joker  could  not  refrain  from 
quietly  altering  Blake's  "Little  Tom  Dacre''  into  "Little  Tom 
Toddyr 


A  COMPLAINT  OF  THE  DECAY  OF  BEGGARS 
IN  THE  METROPOLIS 

("London  Magazine,'"  June  1822) 

Each  degree  of  it  is  mocked  by  its  "neighbour  grice." 
A  reference,  apparently,  to  Timon  of  AthenSt  iv.  3 — 

—''every  ^ise  of  fortune 
Is  smoothed  by  that  below." 

Unfastidious  J^ncent  Bourne  (1697-1747). 
The  "dear  Vinny  Bourne"  of  Cowper,  who  had  been  his  pupil 
at  Westminster.  Cowper,  it  will  be  remembered,  translated 
many  of  Bourne''s  Latin  verses. 

B ,  the  mild  Rector  of . 

In  LamVs  Key  to  the  Initials,  etc.,  used  in  his  essays,  this 
is  affirmed  to  be  a  quite  imaginary  personage. 


A  DISSERTATION  UPON  ROAST  FIG 

("London  Magazine,''  September  1822) 

THE  tradition  as  to  the  origin  of  cooking,  which  is 
of  course  the  salient  feature  of  this  essay,  had  been 
communicated  to  Lamb,  he  here  tells  us,  by  his  friend  M., 
Thomas  Manning,  whose  acquaintance  he  had  made  long  ago 

337 


NOTES 

«t  Cambridge,  and  who  since  those  da3rs  had  spent  much  of 
his  life  in  exploring  China  and  Thibet.  Lamb  says  the  same 
thing  in  one  of  his  private  letters,  so  we  may  accept  it  as  a 
literal  fact.  The  question  therefore  arises  whether  Manning 
had  found  the  legend  existing  in  any  form  in  China,  or 
whether  Lamb's  detail  of  the  Chinese  manuscript  is  wholly 
fantastic.  It  is  at  least  certain  that  the  story  is  a  very  old 
one,  and  appears  as  early  as  the  third  century,  in  the  writ- 
ings of  Porphyry  of  Tyre.  The  following  passage,  a  literal 
translation  from  the  Treatise  De  Abstinentia  oi  that  philoso- 
pher, sets  forth  one  form  of  the  legend: — 

"Asclepiades,  in  his  work  on  Cyprus  and  Phoenice,  writes 
as  follows: — *  Originally  it  was  not  usual  for  anything  having 
life  to  be  sacrificed  to  the  gods — not  that  there  was  any  law 
on  the  subject,  for  it  was  supposed  to  be  forbidden  by  the 
law  of  nature.  At  a  certain  period,  however  (tradition  says), 
when  blood  was  required  in  atonement  for  blood,  the  first 
victim  was  sacrificed,  and  was  entirely  consumed  by  fire.  On 
one  occasion,  in  later  times,  when  a  sacrifice  of  this  kind  was 
being  offered,  and  the  victim  in  process  of  being  burned,  a 
morsel  of  its  flesh  fell  to  the  ground.  The  priest,  who  was 
standing  by,  immediately  picked  it  up,  and  on  removing  his 
fingers  from  the  burnt  flesh,  chanced  to  put  them  to  his 
mouth,  in  order  to  assuage  the  pain  of  the  bum.  As  soon 
as  he  had  tasted  the  burnt  flesh  he  conceived  a  strange  long- 
ing to  eat  of  it,  and  accordingly  began  to  eat  the  flesh  him- 
self, and  gave  some  to  his  wife  also.  Pygmalion,  on  hearing 
of  it,  directed  that  the  man  and  his  wife  should  be  put  to 
death,  by  being  hurled  headlong  from  a  rock,  and  appointed 
another  man  to  the  priest's  office.  When,  moreover,  not  long 
after,  this  man  was  offering  the  same  sacrifice,  and  in  the 
same  way  ate  of  the  flesh,  he  was  sentenced  to  the  same  pun- 
ishment. When,  however,  the  thing  made  further  progress, 
and  men  continued  to  offer  sacrifice,  and  in  order  to  gratify 
338 


NOTES 

their  appetite  could  not  refrain  from  the  flesh,  but  regularly 
adopted  the  habit  of  eating  it,  all  punishment  for  so  doing 
ceased  to  be  inflicted.*'* 

Manning  may  have  been  aware  of  this  passage,  and  have 
told  the  story  in  his  own  language  to  Charles  Lamb.  It  is  worth 
noticing  that  in  1823,  the  year  following  the  appearance  of 
this  essay,  Thomas  Taylor,  the  Platonist,  published  a  trans- 
lation of  certain  Treatises  of  Porphyry,  including  the  De  Ah- 
stinentia.  It  is  possible  that  Manning  may,  on  some  occasion, 
have  learned  the  tradition  from  Taylor. 

Recent  editors  of  Lamb  have  asserted,  without  offering  any 
sufficient  evidence,  that  he  owed  the  idea  of  this  rhapsody 
on  the  Pig  to  an  Italian  Poem,  by  Tigrinio  Bistonio,  published 
in  1761,  at  Modena,  entitled  Gli  Elogi  del  Porco  (Tigrinio  Bis- 
tonio was  the  pseudonym  of  the  Abate  Giuseppe  Ferrari).  Mr. 
Richard  Gamett  of  the  British  Museum,  to  whom  I  am  in- 
debted for  calling  my  attention  to  the  passage  in  Porphyry, 
has  kindly  examined  for  me  the  Italian  poem  in  question,  and 
assures  me  that  he  can  find  in  it  no  resemblance  whatever  to 
Lamb's  treatment  of  the  same  theme.  There  is  no  affectation 
in  Lamb's  avowal  of  his  fondness  for  this  delicacy.  Towards 
the  close  of  his  life,  however.  Roast  Pig  declined  somewhat  in 
his  favour,  and  was  superseded  by  hare,  and  other  varieties  of 
game.  Indeed  Lamb  was  as  fond  of  game  as  Cowper  was  of 
fish;  and  as  in  Cowper's  case,  his  later  letters  constantly  open 
with  acknowledgments  of  some  recent  offering  of  the  kind 
from  a  good-natured  correspondent. 

Ere  sin  could  blight  or  sorrow  fade. 
Death  came  with  timely  care. 

From  Coleridge's  Epitaph  on  an  Infant,  It  must  have  been 
with  unusual  glee  that  Lamb  here  borrowed  half  of  his  friend'* 
quatrain.  The  epitaph  had  appeared  in  the  very  earliest  vol- 

839 


NOTES 

nme  to  which  he  was  himself  a  contributor — the  little  rolumt 
of  Coleridge's  poems,  published  in  1796,  by  Joseph  Cottle,  of 
Bristol.  The  lines  are  there  allotted  a  whole  page  to  themselves. 

It  was  over  London  Bridge. 

The  reader  will  not  fail  to  note  the  audacious  indifference  to 
fact  that  makes  Lamb  assert  in  a  parenthesis  that  his  school 
was  on  the  other  side  of  London  Bridge,  and  that  he  was  after- 
wards "at  St.  Omer's.'* 


ON  THE  BEHAVIOUR  OF  MARRIED  PEOPLE 

("London  Magazine,""  September  1822) 


T 


HE  essay  had  previously  appeared,  in  1811,  in  Leigh 
Hunt's  Reflector, 


ON  SOME  OF  THE  OLD  ACTORS 

("London  Magazine,"  February  1822) 

THIS  essay  was  originally  one  of  three  which  appeared  in 
the  London  under  the  title  of  The  Old  Actors.  When 
Lamb  collected  and  edited  his  essays  for  publication  in  a  vol- 
ume in  1823,  he  abridged  and  rearranged  them  under  differ- 
ent headings.  Many  of  Lamb's  favourites,  here  celebrated, 
had  died  or  left  the  stage  almost  before  Lamb  entered  man- 
hood, showing  how  early  his  critical  faculty  had  matured. 

Bensley,  whose  performance  of  Malvolio  he  has  analysed  in 
such  a  masterly  way,  retired  from  his  profession  in  1796,  and 
Palmer  in  1798.  Parsons  died  in  1795,  and  Dodd  in  the  au- 
tumn of  1796,  three  months  after  quitting  the  stage.  Suett 
survived  till  1805,  and  Mrs.  Jordan  till  1816. 


S40 


NOTES 

ON  COMEDY  OF  THE  LAST  CENTUHT 
("London  Magazine,"  Apeil  1822) 

ORIGINALLY  the  second  part  of  the  essay  on  The  Old 
Actors.  This  essay  is  noteworthy  as  having  provoked 
a  serious  remonstrance  from  Lord  Macaulay,  in  reviewing 
Leigh  Hunt's  edition  of  the  Restoration  Dramatists,  Lamb's 
apology  for  the  moral  standards  of  Congreve  and  Wycherley 
is  simply  an  exercise  of  ingenuity,  or  rather,  as  Hartley  Cole- 
ridge pointed  out,  is  an  apology  for  himself — Charles  Lamb 
— who  found  himself  quite  able  to  enjoy  the  unparalleled  wit 
of  Congreve  without  being  in  any  way  thrown  off  his  moral 
balance.  It  is  in  a  letter  to  Moxon  on  Leigh  Hunt's  proposed 
edition  that  Hartley  Coleridge's  comment  occurs.  He  wTites: 
"Nothing  more  or  better  can  be  said  in  defence  of  these 
writers  than  what  Lamb  has  said  in  his  delightful  essay  on 
The  Old  Actors;  which  is,  after  all,  rather  an  apology  for  the 
audiences  who  applauded  and  himself  who  delighted  in  their 
plays,  than  for  the  plays  themselves.  .  .  .  But  Lamb  always 
took  things  by  the  better  handle." 

ON  THE  ACTING  OF  MUNDEN 
("London  Magazine,"  Octobee  1822) 

CocJcletop. 

In  O'Keefe's farce  of  Modem  Antiques;  or^The Merry  Moumert. 

—  There  the  antic  sate 

Mocking  our  state. 

Adapted  from  Richard  //.,  Act  III.  Sc.  2. 


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